SUMMARY: Pritha tells the story of a choice she made when she was still young: her Craft, or the man who loves her? It is the most important decision she ever makes.

Turn, Turn, Turn

I daresay there are a fair few that fancy I sprang from the ground like a mushroom, wrinkled and tough.  Bollocks to them.  I did not get here by squatting in the dirt, breathing naught but darkness.  Each line on my face is the thread of a tale.  Each band of iron in my hair is the brand of a choice forged in my soul.  O yes, I have a soul.  I have also a heart that once beat as wildly in my breast as the wings of a sparrow.

I remember when I still lived with my mentor outside the village of Keus.  I was a fortnight shy of sixteen then, barely two years a woman and determined to learn everything Yehli could teach me of the Craft.  It seemed no lesson could come too soon now that I had begun to harness my gift.  Keus was obliged to accustom itself to my presence as I took on the simpler aspects of a witch's role.  I believe I used more energy keeping a civil tongue in my head than performing real magic, but there it is:  people are foolish.

On a particular day in autumn, I was on my way home from visiting the old carpenter.  The sun was warm, the leaves were still on the trees and brilliant with color, yet I could only shake my head as I walked the hard dirt path toward the woods.  Here was a man with three fine apprentices, two of whom were his own sons and none of whom were incompetent.  He had daughters at home well able to take care of him.  There was no reason for him to aggravate his stiff joints in the workshop all day, save mule-headedness.  He intended to die at the lathe, he said.  What rubbish, thought I, ruing the herbs spent on him.

I was glad to hear a younger voice call my name before I made it to the trees.  “Pritha!  Ho, Pritha!  Stay a moment!”

I turned and saw Bishall jogging up the path to meet me.  He was a tall young man, a few years older than I.  His dark curls always seemed about to blow away like dandelion fluff on a stiff breeze, but he was built firm and sound underneath.  It gave me joy to see a human body working as the Powers intended.  “Good day, Bishall,” I said when he came to stand before me.   “Is something amiss?”

“Nothing serious, I hope,” he replied, running blunt fingers through his hair.  “I was passing by and happened to see you, so I thought to myself, 'there goes Pritha, and perhaps if she isn't too busy she will come and see a billy-goat what's gone off its feed.'  I know I have been wrong about the animals before, but this time I'm quite sure.  There must be some reason for it, after all.  Will you come?”

“It is out if my way,” I said, “but I'll come.  It would be cruel to let the goat suffer because its master cried 'wolf' in the past.”

“I'm glad to hear you say it,” he said.  We both smiled.

The homestead where Bishall lived with his family was a little over a mile outside the village proper.  I knew the rutted cart road between them by heart.  In the spring, I had gone with Yehli to oversee a difficult foaling.  Almost every week since, he found some reason to ask me back.

“The apples are good this year,” he commented as we walked.  He had his eyes on the Janvers' orchard to our left.  “I expect we'll be swimming in cider and buried under apple pies soon.”

“Perhaps,” I said.  “And you'll be sick to death of them before winter solstice.”

“I don't think so.  I like apples.”

“So do I, but I wouldn't want to eat them every day.”

“Every other day?”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

So it went.  Bishall trespassed briefly in order to fetch us a pair of apples.  We occupied ourselves with them for the rest of the walk and saved the cores for the goat.  The one in question, a sturdy black fellow, ate them both without batting an eye.

“Now, that's downright peculiar,” Bishall said, leaning over the fence and staring intently at the goat.  I, on the other hand, planted my hands on my hips and gave the boy a stern look.

“Bishall ap Baid, if I didn't know better I would say you invented these stories.  What would your mother think?”

He grinned at me.  If nothing else, I give him full marks for bravery.  The glare of a true witch has the power to turn men's knees to jelly.  Even my stern looks were nothing to be sneezed at.  “Oh, it isn't my mother I have to worry about.  She swears by old Yehli.  My father is the one who thinks—ah, well.  I shouldn't say.  I beg your pardon.”  He blushed and looked away toward the barn to which the goat pen was annexed.

“As you haven't said, there is nothing to pardon,” I replied, one eyebrow arched.  “If you really want it, you shall have to tell me what it's about.”  This was my way of saying I wanted an explanation.  I could guess at some of it, but it is always best to get one's information from a direct source when possible, especially when confirming a suspicion.

He was silent for a moment.  When he spoke, it was with an expression of such earnest resolve that I was surprised by it.  “Then I will tell you in full.  But not here.  Since your magic apple cores have cured the goat, I'll walk you back to the village.”  He surprised me again by offering his arm.  If anyone else had done it, I should have been offended.  I was not so fragile that I needed the support of a man's arm, after all—I was Pritha, novice witch and capable of carrying my own weight.  From Bishall, though, the offer was simply one of companionship.  I took it.  “You know I respect you,” he said when we were well away from the barn.  “I respect what you do.  I might not have come into this world at all if it weren't for Yehli.  She midwifed for all my siblings, too.”

“If all this is simply to tell me your father does not like witches, I already realized.”

“It isn't just that.  To come to the point... Light help me... he doesn't like the idea of a witch in the family.”

I stopped in my tracks.  It took no skill to divine his meaning.  “Well,” I said after I had sufficiently mustered my thoughts.  “He has nothing to worry about, because a witch cannot get married.”  I was not trying to be cold to him.  I was flattered.  My words were only the truth.

“Must you be a witch, then?” he blurted.  He moved to face me, holding only my hand.  “Pritha, I have tried and failed to keep you from my thoughts, waking and dreaming.  You haunt me.  Your eyes, like blue stars, they follow me everywhere.  I see a hawk in the field and fancy it has your proud bearing.  I see a willow branch with its trailing yellow leaves and I think 'that must be Pritha going around the trunk, for no one else has such a plait.'  Can't you see I love you?”

How long had he been planning this speech?  It was all far too much.  I thought one of us must be going mad.  “You barely know me.”

“Why do you think I go out of my way to invent ridiculous excuses to bring you here?  It's all rot and nonsense, we both know that.  You must feel something for me, too, else why would you come every time?”

I have not been rendered speechless very often in my life, but to that I had no answer.  I considered Bishall my friend, certainly, and his antics part of a quaint game with strange unwritten rules, but courtship?  The possibility had not crossed my mind.

He squeezed my hand, perhaps harder than he intended.  I could see that he was in considerable torment.  “I am sorry if anything I've said offends or causes you any undue worry,” he said.  “Shall I still walk with you?”

“I... no.  I need to think about this alone, Bishall.  I don't quite know what to make of it.”

“As you wish,” he said on a heavy breath.  “But when will I see you again?”

I considered the question.  “Do not seek me out.”  At his crestfallen look, I hurried on:  “When I have anything to say, I will find you.  You have my word.  Now, I must go.  Yehli will be wondering what has become of me.”  Gently, I pulled my hand back.

Bishall squared his shoulders and let his arms rest at his sides.  His fingers closed loosely about the fabric of his trousers.  “Of course.  I will watch for you every day.”  His brow furrowed and relaxed again.  I believe he nearly entreated me to hurry, but thought better of it.  “Good day, then.”

“Good day.”  I turned and continued to the road.  I could feel his eyes on me until I passed out of view, but I did not look back.

In truth, the day was nearly spent by the time I climbed the path through the woods to the home of my mentor.  There was a scent of woodsmoke and cooking herbs on the air in addition to the crisp autumn smells in the gardens.  The little house was surrounded by growing things, all of which, from the moss on the ground to the vines on the walls, had a use as food or medicine.  Yehli's power and skill kept them potent year after year.  I knew them as one might know good neighbors, but I paid them no heed as I passed into the house.

“You are late,” came Yehli's dry earthy voice.  She stood by the hearth, stooped to tend to the simmering pot over the fire.  I had long since accepted the fact that she did not need to look at me to know me or to focus the full force of her attention in my direction.

“Yes,” I said as I shut the door.  I could not imagine how to give her the explanation she expected.  There was never any question of not telling or inventing something—the day I could fool the woman had not yet come.  The challenge I faced was putting my words in some cohesive order.

Yehli certainly sensed the trouble, for she rescued me.  “Sit down, girl,” she said.  “You are fortunate I kept this warm for you and I'll not have you spoil my efforts by standing about.  The table is already laid.”

I did as I was told.  The small, square table was set on a rug, oblique to the fireplace.  Yehli served a lentil stew into wooden bowls and sliced fresh bread for dipping while it cooled.  I watched her hands.  They were knotted, but strong like the roots of an evergreen pine.  Life never slept in her veins.  I did not dare to meet her dark, uncanny eyes until I had taken sustenance, and even then I delayed.

“Pritha.”  With one word, she drew my gaze upward.  To know a thing's true name is power.  With a tone of command, she used it.  She searched my face, reading into the mind behind it.  I was sensitive enough to feel her combing through my surface thoughts and not yet able to stop her.  “So.  Tell me about your young man.”

“You didn't need the Sight for that,” I said.  One day I would block her probing entirely.  For now I could only keep her from toying with me.

Yehli shrugged, resettling her dove-gray shawl about her shoulders.  “Perhaps not.  Anyone can see you're out of sorts, and you are at that age.  I take it there is a young man?  I'm not losing my touch?”

“No, there is.  Bishall ap Baid, who is more clever than wise but a stout fellow just the same.”

“Ah yes, the eldest.  I know that one.  He was like that from birth—decided he should come out feet first, he did.  Nearly killed himself and his poor mother.  It's about time he found someone to keep him in order.  But you, now.”  She gave me a look that pierced through the matter and straight to the soul.  “You have the gift, which means you'll not be the helpmeet of any man.  You know this.”

“But why?” I said, pricked to argument by her lofty tone.  “I know witches never marry, but I do not understand the reason.  Bishall says he loves me.  I'm not at all sure I don't love him back, and any girl would be fortunate to have a husband sure to inherit his family's livelihood.”

“Think, girl!  Think of the vows.”

Ah, the vows.  To be considered a true witch, no matter how powerful or talented, a novice must petition her local coven and solemnly swear to uphold a set of principles handed down through the ages from matron to maiden.  If she refuses to swear, the coven may strip her of all but the most rudimentary power.  Chief among the principles is that all life is valuable in the eyes of the Creator Powers and that it is not for us to assign rank or preference.  Marriage vows, of course, require the opposite:  a wife must hold her husband first in all things.  As I pondered the contradiction, Bishall's words came to my mind.  “And if I chose not to be a witch?”

“Would you give up the world for one man?  Is he worth so much?  Consider carefully.  The world needs you, Pritha.  Precious few girls have been born with power since the burning craze.  Precious few.”

I gave Yehli a long look.  Was she saying this only to discourage my silly, childish argument?  The lines around her mouth and eyes seemed deeper than usual.  I mustered my energy and called on the Sight.  Peering into her mind was like venturing into a royal tomb, but I braved the tricks and traps and searched out the wealth of her wisdom.  Could there be an end to witches?  Certainly.  All things ended.  Would they end with me?  It was possible that no more would be born after me, or that I would outlive them.  I saw that she did not doubt her words.

“An ending is as important as a beginning,” Yehli said softly, recalling me from the vision.  “Sometimes they are one and the same.  Remember that.”  She pushed back her chair and rose, leaving me to clear the table and bank the fire before taking myself to bed.

I was caught in the crossroads of destiny.  On the one hand, if I chose to accept Bishall's courtship and eventually marry him, I would lose my gift and my independence, perhaps even doom the world to an untimely end to witchcraft.  I would always regret it.  On the other hand, if I continued my apprenticeship with Yehli and became a true witch, the rejection would wound him.  I could lose a friend.  Saving that, I would still never know the comfort of a lifelong partnership.  I would be alone.

These things I weighed in my mind and heart for three days and nights.  I did my chores around the house and I tended the herbs, but the hours passed in a dream-like haze of sound and color.  Yehli, when she was around the house, kept to herself, allowing me to make my choice free of interference.  Finally, I woke to the sure feeling that it was time to speak to Bishall.

Winter was sharpening its icy fangs that morning, so I dressed in dark wool and kept my arms hugged tightly to my body as I walked to the farm.  In three days, most of the apples had been plucked from the trees.  The branches seemed to me relieved to let go their burden and rest in preparation for next season.  I did not disturb them.

Bishall was milking the nanny-goats when I found him.  He was so intent that he did not notice me at first and nearly toppled the pail when he turned around.  “Pritha!  Bless me, but you gave me a fright.  Did you spring from the ground like frost?  You were that quiet.”

I smiled.  “No.  I was watching you.  How are the goats today?”

“Ah, well, I couldn't say just yet.  Why don't you help me finish here?  Then you can see for yourself.”

We worked together without speaking.  Needless to say, the nannies were in fine fettle.  They gave their rick milk generously and without hesitation.  We finished the task as the sun climbed over the treetops.  Bishall poured the last pail into the big canister and looked askance at me.

“You told me you would come when you had something to say,” he began.  “Before you say it, I want you to know that Baid intends to disown me if I court you further.  I tried to tell him you wouldn't be a witch if you married me, but he would not listen.  I desire only your happiness, so I wouldn't have you thinking I can give you something I might not have.”

It tore at my heart to see how anxious he was, and for all the wrong reasons.  Nothing his father could say or do would have changed my answer.  I looked into his eyes, leaned forward, and kissed him.  His sharp intake of air drew the breath from my lungs and my startled response drew it back again.  After that, it was shared between us.  When our lips parted, it was like learning to breathe all over again.  I will never forget the sensation.

“Forgive me,” I whispered.

He was incredulous.  “But you're always bold, and no one saw...”

“Forgive me,” I repeated.  “I wanted to give you something, but I'm afraid I might have taken it instead.  I must be a witch, Bishall.  I was born to it and I cannot give it up.  What would Keus do without one?  What would the old carpenter do without someone to take his pain so he can die doing what he was born to do?”  In that moment, I saw the man clearly and I felt only respect for his sense of purpose.  Every man and woman should be so secure.

Bishall looked as though he had just come unmoored.  He faced me, but I think his attention was adrift.  Being Bishall, though, he soon found solid ground again.  “Perhaps it was naive to ask you to love me.  There is much I do not understand about witchcraft, is there not?”

I bowed my head.  I could not look at the hurt in his eyes.  “I have yet to learn everything about witchcraft,” I said.  “I could have loved you in another life, I think.  In this one, I am what I am.”  I wanted to apologize, but I could not force the words from my throat.  It would have been a lie.

He took a deep sniff of the air.  “It was the wrong season.  Perhaps I'll start over in spring.”

“No,” I said quietly.  “It was exactly the right season.”  Autumn was the perfect time for the last true witch to be born.