Origins

5. The Witch’s Jar: A Spell of Protection

As darkness fell, the whirring pain within me began to settle, though the memory of it still frightened me. As Ma and I ate our stew thickened with the potatoes from Diarmuid, I noticed that she was still in a dour mood. I kept myself steady, not wanting to draw her ire upon me.

After I had cleaned the supper dishes, Ma brought out a clay jar to prepare for the spell of protection. “I don’t believe you’ve ever done a witch’s jar before, have you?”

I shook my head. “No, but I’ve collected many sharp objects. Just as you said.” I opened the thick pouch and shook its contents onto the table with a tinny clatter.

“Fill the jar with everything you’ve found,” Ma told me. “And as I remember, there are a few herbs that need to be added. Let me see.” She took her Book of Shadows from its hiding place under the eaves of the cottage roof and set it on the table. “This is why I expect you to chronicle everything in your Book of Shadows, Rose. The mind does not always record as well as parchment and quill.”

Another criticism. I dropped nails into the jar, wondering what I would have to do to please my mother in the ways of the Goddess.

My mother leafed through her book, her teeth pressed over her lower lip, until she found the right page. “Aye, we need sage and ivy,” she said. “And a touch of bay should warn us of any further act of evil coming upon the MacGreavys.” She ran her finger down the page, nodding. “And marjoram. Do we have that in our collection, Rose?”

“I think so.” I got up from the table to check the pouches hanging from the rafters. “Aye, Ma, here it is.” As I placed the pouch on the table, she caught my hand in hers.

Her touch sent a spark through me. Surprise, perhaps. Although I already knew I felt guilty for hiding so much from her.

“Something’s changed, like shifting winds.” She glanced up at me, her dark eyes locking on me. “Why do I have the feeling you’re not telling me something, Rose? Are you all right?”

I nodded, trying to look away from her.

Ma rose to her feet, facing me. “What happened to you today? Did something go wrong in your ritual?”

I nodded again, too frightened of the painful experience to keep it pent up inside me. “I was. I was thanking the Goddess when She struck me down from the sky.” I clasped my hands to my chest. “The force hit me here, knocking me to the ground. ’Twas like a lightning bolt on a sunny day and… oh, Ma, ’twas painful.”

She folded me into her arms. “Child, child. Were you harmed?”

I closed my eyes and pressed my head to her blouse, relieved to have the truth out. “At first I could barely breathe, but I’m better now. Still frightened, though. Why would the Goddess strike me down?”

“ ’Tis hard to say.” Ma stroked my hair, then moved me to a chair. “Have you done anything that might offend Her? Think hard, Rose, and be honest. What kind of spells have you been working on of late?”

I rubbed my forehead, wondering how to get through my web of lies without tripping over it. Surely my love spell for Diarmuid had not offended the Goddess so greatly? “Well, there was drawing down the moon. I did that with Kyra.”

“ ’Tis not a spell, though.”

“But we did work magick,” I insisted. “We had a charm that needed to be charged.”

“What sort of charm?”

As soon as she asked the question, I knew trouble was brewing for me. “It was a moonstone for Kyra,” I said simply.

“And the purpose of the charm?”

“To bring her the love of Falkner Radburn.”

“Oh, by the Goddess...” Ma banged her fist on the table, making the witch’s jar jump a bit. “How many times have I told you not to meddle with a person’s free will? You can make a charm or a poppet to attract love, but it’s wrong to ensnare the love of a specific person. To meddle with a person’s life, to control his destiny. that’s dark magick.” She banged her fist again. “It’s wrong, Rose!”

My insides turned stone cold at her anger. Couldn’t she see I was just helping a very desperate friend?

“Why is it that all my instructions to you fly through the air and fall to the soil?” my mother asked. “You are not listening, Rose, and today is just one example of how the power of the Goddess can harm if you don’t practice witchcraft in the ways of the elders. Do you want to hurt people, Rose?”

“No, Ma,” I said quietly. That much was true.

“Then why do you insist on meddling with a person’s will? ’Tis not right, Rose. When you go out to gather plants, do you strike down a plant without apology? Do you slash through stems at will, taking more than you need, harming nature?”

“No.” I dug my fingers into my hair, dropping my chin against my chest. I hated being chastised this way. I thought of Diarmuid’s comment that he had seen a woman struck down the same way because she was destined to be the high priestess of the coven. Why could my ma not even entertain the thought that there was a positive reason? Could it be that she knew I had been chosen by the Goddess for greatness, and she was jealous of my connection to Her? My face burned at the thought.

“So why would you strike out at a person that way, tampering with his destiny?”

There was no answer—at least, none that would suit her—so I kept quiet.

“You must go back to your earlier lessons,” Ma said sternly. “Starting tomorrow, you will look over your Book of Shadows from the beginning. You will spend less time afield with your friends and more time studying from my Book of Shadows, too. And you will stop making up your own spells until I can be sure you’re fulfilling the Goddess’s will. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” I said. I pressed my teeth into my lower lip, wondering if she would realize that I had not promised her anything.

It was all so unfair. I had tried to gain my mother’s support by telling her about the painful strike from the sky, and in turn she merely wanted to cripple me. If Síle the high priestess had her way, I’d be locked in the cottage, drying herbs and inscribing spells.

How could I stop making spells when I knew the Goddess was calling me to Her? How dare my mother try to interfere with the Goddess’s destiny for me?

Ma did not understand about my powers. And from her tart reaction on that front, I knew that it would be a catastrophe to tell her about Diarmuid.

For now he would be a secret, and until my mother learned to see me as more than her incapable daughter, he would remain a secret.

Down the dark road, Miller MacGreavy led the way. He was followed by his wife, who walked beside my mother, their voices lowered so as not to wake anyone in the cottages we passed. I walked behind them, feeling dull and tired. The night’s Esbat rites had hardly moved me. They had only emphasized how Síle and her coven were following a weary, timeworn road while I was on the verge of opening an exciting new doorway to the Goddess.

The breeze rustled the trees so ripe with bud; their clattering branches reminded me of the bell rung at Esbat.

Three times.

“An ye harm none, do what thou wilt,” Síle chanted.

“An ye harm none, do what thou wilt,” we all repeated.

“Thus runs the Witch’s Rede,” Síle went on. “Remember it well. Whatever you desire; whatever you would ask of the Goddess, be assured that it will harm no one—not even yourself. And remember that as you give, so it shall return threefold.”

I trudged along, trying to clear my mother’s voice from my head. I had heard her words in the circle so many times, I could recite them by heart.

“I am She who watches over thee,” said High Priestess Síle.

“Mother of you all. Know that I rejoice that you do not forget me, paying me homage at the full of the moon. Know that I weave the skein of life for each and every one of you...”

“Enough, enough, enough!” I grumbled through gritted teeth. I had heard my mother’s words so many times, they had become meaningless for me.

As we neared the mill, I wondered if Ma’s spell of protection would work. At least this was something that interested me, as I’d never worked one before. Miller MacGreavy unlatched the big door to the mill, and the four of us filed inside. During the Esbat rites, Ma and the MacGreavys had summoned the Goddess to protect them and the mill, so I imagined that this would entail more spell casting than the ritual had.

Soon Ma had candles lit, and Mrs. MacGreavy set her tools on the table, which we assembled around. Normally I would have helped with preparations, but since Ma had made it clear I was being punished, I held back. Ma had already placed herbs in the witch’s jar, which now sat at the center of the table, but I knew there was something more to be added before we sealed it.

Closing her eyes, Ma held up her hands, opened to the Goddess. “With this witch’s jar we will cast a spell of protection over this mill and this miller’s family,” she said. Looking down at the table, she moved the jar toward Mrs. MacGreavy. “’Twill need a drop of blood from you. Take your bolline and give your finger the slightest prick.”

The miller’s wife pressed the sharp end of her bolline against her fingertip. A crimson drop began to form, and she squeezed it into the jar.

Then my mother passed the jar over to the miller. “Spit in it,” she said. He did so. Then Ma began to seal the top of the jar, using hot candle wax. As she worked, she chanted:

“Protect this mill, protect these folk,

Guard them from illness and harm.

Send back the darkness to those who sent it.

Cast a light of goodness around,

Let love and protection abound.”

Glancing up from the sealed jar, my mother told the MacGreavys to join hands. “You must remain here in the mill while Rose and I circle it with the jar. Three times.” She pulled on her cloak and went to the door. “We’ll be back when the spell is finished.”

Silently I followed my mother. I was allowed to hold the jar as we traced a wide circle around the mill. On the side where the brook ran deep and fast, there was a crossing bridge. But as we reached the shallows on the other side of the mill, it was clear there was no way across.

“No way across but in,” Ma said, gathering up her skirts. “Pull up your gown, Rose. We’ll be walking through the Goddess’s waters tonight.” She stuck out her foot, eyeing her sandal. “Too bad it’s not a cobbler we’re casting a spell for. We’ll be in need of new footwear after this.”

I laughed, taken aback at Ma’s impetuous humor. This was a side of her I rarely saw. I hitched up my skirts and stepped into the brook. Cold water swirled around my legs and mud seeped into my shoes, but I tramped on beside Ma, the witch’s jar tucked into the crook of my arm.

We circled the mill three times, then ducked inside with sodden shoes and wet legs. The cold didn’t bother me. It was sort of refreshing on a warm night, and I counted this spell as something of value, certainly worth including in my Book of Shadows.

Inside the mill, the MacGreavys waited in the flickering candlelight.

“The spell is done,” Ma said. “We need to bury the jar, but there’s no safe place around here. Rose and I will hide it in the woods where no one will find it.”

The miller went over to my mother, clasping her hands. “Thank you, Síle.”

She nodded. “And now I think I need a rag to wipe down my shoes. Seems that Rose and I had to go for a late-night dip in the brook.” She pushed off her shoe, and it flopped onto the floor like a dead fish.

“Oh, my!” Mrs. MacGreavy laughed, rushing off to find some cloths.

The miller brought out chairs and wine for all of us, and he and his wife talked in the quiet, dark room while Ma and I dried our feet. I took a sip of wine—sweet and heady. Just like Diarmuid’s kisses. Of course, nearly everything made me think of Diarmuid. It was an effort to concentrate on what was before me instead of the lovely picture floating in my mind of him. And at the moment, the conversation was so gloomy, with the miller complaining of slow business, that I preferred to dream of my love.

“At least it was our slow season,” Mrs. MacGreavy was saying.

“Aye, but if we don’t get that broken gear fixed soon, we’ll have no business at all,” Miller MacGreavy said. “It’s all a result of the curse upon us, probably from those vile Burnhydes.” He turned to Ma. “And I thank you for wiping it away. Our luck will change now, though I can’t say that I see better days ahead for the Seven Clans. It’s an age-old battle we’re fighting, and it’s getting worse instead of better, with curses and sheep thieves and vendors picking on innocent young girls at market.” His eyes burned with conviction as he glanced at me, and I bit my lower lip, wondering if everyone in the Highlands had heard of my escapades at the market. If the story was floating around, soon the real details—of the boy who had saved me—would wend their way to my mother. More trouble for me.

“Ian...” The miller’s wife tried to soothe him, but he forged on.

“I say it’s high time we Wodebaynes stopped taking the prejudice against us,” he insisted. “Time to use magick to fight back.”

Closing her eyes, my mother shook her head gently. “No, Ian, that’s not the answer.”

“Well, then, how are we going to stop it, Síle?” the miller asked. “You know the stories—though there are so many, I’ve lost count. A Leapvaughn tricking a Wodebayne farmer out of his land. A Ruanwande casting a spell that makes a Wodebayne girl go mad. Even your own husband, Gowan, was prey to the prejudice, Síle.”

“My father?” I dropped the rag on the floor. So long had I craved to hear stories of my father, Gowan MacEwan, but every time I asked, my request was headed off by a severe look from my mother. “Tell me,” I begged, turning to the man.

“ ’Tis not much of a story, Rose,” the miller said, touching his beard. “But one day, when your father was on the road traveling to a nearby village, he came across a Wyndonkylle man on a horse. The horseman rode past without incident but then returned to harass your father. He accused your father of looking upon him with evil in his eyes. Then, when he learned that your father was a Wodebayne, he reared up his horse and trampled your father under its hooves.”

I winced. “That’s a terrible tale. But Da survived it.”

Ma nodded. “Aye, but he walked with a limp ever after.”

As Mr. MacGreavy went on lamenting the clan differences, I thought of my father. He had died when I was young, so I remembered little of him. I’d heard a few dark rumors—tales that he had been interested in dark magick—though no one spoke of him to me directly. And my mother refused to fill in any of the missing details. Why was she so reluctant to speak of him?

After the conversation and wine ran out, we said our good-byes and headed home. Ma and I were across the river and down the road a bit when she realized we had forgotten the witch’s jar.

“Make haste and fetch it,” she told me. “I shall wait here.”

Lifting my skirts, I ran back along the road. But as I approached the mill, I saw a solitary candle burning upon the threshold. I slowed my pace as my feet silently crept over the cooling earth. There was magick here—I felt the boundaries of a witch’s circle, and I was forced to stop at its perimeters. I used my magesight to study the details. Was that a pentagram drawn in the dirt by the door? But it was upside down! ’Twas not part of the spell Ma had cast.

As I stood in the shadows, a figure loomed in the open doorway—Miller MacGreavy. He did not sense my presence as he leaned out and poured a dark liquid over the pentagram, all the while uttering words I did not understand. I gasped, realizing that the liquid Ian MacGreavy was using was blood.

The very tone of the scene made me shudder. ’Twas as if a cold wind had swept up the river, turning everything in its path to ice.

Dark magick. I gasped.

Miller MacGreavy twitched in fear, darting a look toward me. “Rose?” he asked suspiciously. “What are you doing here?”

“The witch’s jar,” I croaked in fear. “We. we left it behind.” He scowled at me, then ducked back inside. A moment later he reappeared with the jar, stepping around the pentagram and drawing a door in his circle to step out toward me.

His eyes glittered in the candlelight as he handed me the jar. “Begone with you, Rose MacEwan,” he said angrily. “And not a word to anyone of what you witnessed here tonight.”

“Aye, sir,” I said breathlessly. Although I feared his magick, I knew it was not cast against me. Still, his warning frightened me. Best to keep it to myself. After all, it appeared he wasn’t harming an innocent.

Yet even as I tucked away my memory of Miller MacGreavy, I decided not to let the matter of my father rest. On the way home from the mill that night I waited until my heartbeat slowed to a more relaxed pace, then launched into the subject. “I was glad to hear the story of Da,” I said, walking slowly under the orange moonlight. “We set a place for him every year at the Samhain table, yet you never tell me stories about him. You never speak of him, Ma. Why is that?”

My mother took a deep breath, searching for the answer. “It always pained me to speak of him. The way his life was snuffed out. the way it ended. It was a terrible thing, Rose.” She linked her arm through mine. “I supposed I thought that if we didn’t talk about it, you might be spared the pain that I felt.”

I shook my head. “When I think of him, there’s no pain, really. Just curiosity.”

“What do you remember of him?”

Thinking of Da, I smiled. “His largeness. He was a bear of a man, was he not?”

“Quite large,” Ma agreed.

“I remember riding on his shoulders—big, broad shoulders. And his hands. They were so huge, my little hand disappeared inside his. I remember his deep, ringing laugh. And a trip to the coast. Did he take me to the seacoast?”

My mother nodded.

“I’ve heard the rumors of him,” I said. “That he subscribed to dark magic. Is that true, Ma?”

“No,” she said gently. “I’ll never believe that. He was a good man; he loved his family, his child, his clan. He was simply misunderstood.”

Like me, I thought. Ma didn’t understand my powers or my adventurous spirit. She couldn’t accept that her path to the Goddess was not the only way.

“I wish you’d had a chance to know him well,” my mother said.

We walked for a few moments, then I asked, “What of his death? Did he not die in his sleep?”

“He did.”

“Then what of all the rumors? That he was cursed—or poisoned by a rival clan?”

“That is the most difficult part,” my mother admitted. “His death was suspicious. Sudden and unexplainable. Some say a rival clan cursed him in retaliation; I don’t know.”

“Retaliation for what?”

Ma shook her head and her mouth grew tight. “I cannot speak of matters that I know nothing of.” When she turned to me, tears glimmered in her eyes. “And I tell you truly, Rose, I do not know the truth of his death.”

She fell silent, but that silence haunted me as we walked on. Aye, Ma might not have understood Da’s death, but certainly she knew more of the details than I. As usual, she wasn’t giving me enough pieces to patch the thing together in my mind.

I thought of Ian MacGreavy, of the way his body had loomed over the bloody pentagram. Had my father dabbled with taibhs, too? I cast my eyes to the distant moon, wondering.

The next day, after hiding the witch’s jar in a deserted thicket, I met Diarmuid at our secret place in the woods. On this day we wasted no time with small talk or teasing. He pulled me into his arms and placed his lips on mine. The kiss stole my breath away, and we tumbled onto the green moss and lay there, kissing and holding and stroking each other until the sun ventured below the treetops.

He told me that the magick in his own Esbat circle had paled in comparison to what we had done together.

“Aye,” I told him, “I felt the same way last night.” I went over to my small, makeshift altar and smoothed my hands over the surface of the boulder. Looking around, I realized that this was the perfect place for a circle—our circle.

I grabbed my broom and with measured steps walked farther than I had before. I would make the circle wider, this time including the moss bed we liked to frolic upon. Was not our love dedicated to the Goddess—a result of her blessings?

Diarmuid went to the four corners of the new, bigger circle, where he summoned the Watchtowers once again, drawing a pentagram in the air each time. Watching Diarmuid, I felt my world swelling with newfound knowledge and love. The rose stone between my breasts set my heart aglow, reminding me of my good fortune at having found a true love who was also a blood witch.

The day after that we met again, same time, same place. And the day after that and the day after that. My spring afternoons were lush affairs of lips trailing on skin and countless whispered dreams under the cool cover of spring leaves. Each day we maintained our altar, always thanking the Goddess for bringing us together, for bringing us so much pleasure.

“Our destiny is not clear to me yet,” I once told Diarmuid. “But I know there’s a reason we’ve been brought together.”

He dipped his face into the bodice of my gown, nuzzling there seductively. “’Tis not enough that we were brought together to love?”

“Love is a gift, indeed,” I said, slipping my hands into the top of his shirt to find his gold pentagram. “But I’m talking about a greater purpose. Bringing the Seven Clans together, perhaps.”

He moved up to kiss my neck. “Our love is truly beyond all others.” He stopped kissing me to look me in the eye. “I’ve known people who say they are mùirn beatha dàns. They truly believe they are soul mates for life. But I can’t imagine that they would understand the way I feel about you.”

He smoothed his hand over my bodice, cupping one breast gently. “I love you, Rose.”

I gasped, feeling myself melt at his fingertips. I had never known a man before, and Diarmuid swore I was his first love, yet he seemed to know so much of a woman’s body—the places to stroke, to brush, or to touch ever so lightly. Now he was down at my feet, his hands gliding up under my skirts. His fingers whispered over my knees to my thighs until I was unable to still the trembling inside me.

“We’ll be together forever,” he whispered.

“We’ll have no secrets,” I vowed.

“I shall be your first and only love,” he said, moving his hand up between my legs. “And you shall be mine.”

“So mote it be,” I whispered, offering our love to the Goddess.

There, in our secret circle in the woods, we met every afternoon. One day as Diarmuid and I lay together on the moss, I realized that we had been together for nearly a full cycle of the moon. The May celebration of Beltane was but a few weeks away, and Diarmuid and I had met just before the full moon of April.

I thought of the two charmed gemstones that had been the seeds of love: the rose stone and Kyra’s moonstone. Two charms with very different powers.

Oh, Kyra and Falkner were still together and very much in love. But not like Diarmuid and me. Just that morning I had seen Kyra at Sunday mass, and she had been full of giggles and squeals for her boy. Like a child. She knew that I met Diarmuid each day, and she couldn’t believe I’d allowed him a kiss, let alone other pleasures.

“But what do you do with Falkner?” I asked.

“I bring him biscuits and shortbread every time Ma and I bake,” she said. “And he stops by the cottage if he has to deliver a newly shod horse nearby. Which isn’t often. So sometimes Ma allows me to accompany her to market in Kirkloch and we stop in at the blacksmith’s shop.”

“Oh.” I didn’t tell her that it all sounded tedious and lackluster to me. If it suited Kyra, that was fine. But hearing about her love for Falkner made me realize the level of maturity Diarmuid and I had reached. We were far beyond blushes and giggles. Our love had ventured into passion, promise.

And commitment.

“Come back to me, my love,” Diarmuid said, pulling me onto my side. “You’ve wandered so far into the clouds, I’d dare not venture to guess your thoughts.”

“Ah, but I’m here,” I said, “thinking of you.”

As Beltane approached and preparations began, it became more and more difficult for Diarmuid and me to steal away for our afternoon meetings. One day he was late, and I worried the time away, despairing that I would not see him at all. I was about to leave when I received a tua labra from Diarmuid, a silent message that only witches can send: Wait for me, my love. I waited, and within moments he was dashing into my arms, apologizing and explaining about the tedious chores his father had given him that day. Another day Ma seemed more suspicious than usual, and I had to concoct a preposterous lie to sneak off to his arms.

“The strain of saying good-bye to you each afternoon is wearing on me,” I told him as we sat in the moss.

“Aye, and each time it’s without knowing that we’ll both make it back.” He sucked in a deep breath. “It’s getting more and more difficult for us to be together, Rose. Your ma is suspicious, and my da keeps loading me up with work.”

“I know it, and I thought the Goddess would ease our burdens.” He lifted his hand to my cheek, and I pressed against him longingly.

“Blast them all, we should tell them! Let them know of our love!”

His brash spirit made my heart soar. “Would you?” I said. “And would that be an act of courage or foolishness? For no one is ready to learn of us yet. They would either try to tear us apart—or banish us from our clans!”

Diarmuid’s blue eyes clouded with concern. “You’re right. And I will protect you, Rose. I won’t have you ostracized by Leapvaughns or Wodebaynes or anyone.”

“We must go forth with caution,” I said. I knew the Goddess had deigned that we be together, but how could we begin to clear the way with the rest of the world?

As Diarmuid stroked my hair gently, the answer came upon me.

Make final the bond.

“The Goddess wants us to be together,” I said. “Heart, spirit. and body.” Grabbing Diarmuid’s shirt, I pulled him closer. “We must seal our love with a physical union.”

His eyes sparkled with wonder. “ ’Tis the Goddess’s will?”

“Aye.” I nodded, thinking of the upcoming celebration. There would be maypole ribbons fluttering in the breeze, flowers and songs and the scent of burning sage. Each covener would take a ribbon and dance around the maypole, symbolizing the union of man and woman, the joining of all together. “And Beltane will be the perfect time.”