2. Witchcraft on your Tongue
Witchcraft on your Tongue
Rumor Malefic
Townsfolk up with the sun strung white and orange flowers over shop awnings and flickering candlelit lamps.
Old men turned their shop signs from closed to open, flashing their palms in a friendly good morning as I squished past, covered in muck.
No one said a word as I slumped into my window seat at Empath’s bakery.
The baker’s long gray hair was dusted white with flour as she slid a muffin in front of me.
“Is Prism ready for tonight?” Emp asked, flitting back to the bakery case with a tray of buttery treats. “Of course she is, what am I saying? What girl doesn’t dream of her wedding rite.”
I cleared my throat of dust and gestured to my soil covered ensemble. “Notice anything besides my little sister’s ill-planned nuptials?”
Emp cut me a quick glance before shutting the bakery case. “Indeed… I forgot your jam.”
“Unbelievable,” I scoffed, picking at the grime under my nails. “How long are we going to let them get away with this? I am so tired of this happening every month, of living in fear of those pompous fucking Blackthorne?—“
Empath loudly dropped a dish of jam in front of me, shaking the table. “We don’t say that name. We don’t speak of them, Rumor. No matter what they do, no matter who they send, we keep our mouths clean of their poison. Do you understand?”
The gray shop cat, Soot, pranced over to me and sat at my feet, swishing his tail at my ankles.
My teeth ground together, choking down my surly reply to the kitchen crone.
Anger tasted like a cinnamon muffin that morning.
This is how it had gone for ages. I, the stupid witch , got buried in the middle of the night—everyone knew, and everyone knew who did it —yet their names were so feared, so formidable, we couldn’t even utter them with the contempt and terror etched within our very bones.
For what they’d done, what they continued to inflict.
The Blackthorne Boys, hidden in their high towers, beckoned evils upon us lowly citizens of Willowspire.
Hundreds, no, thousands, of graves surrounded their estate.
A warning, a visible sign of the death and decay they so flippantly inflicted.
The rapture.
The spider .
And as soon as my witch mark appeared on my palm, they began burying me alive periodically. Some old magic clicking into place with rules I was breaking without knowing the game.
“Those thoughts won’t serve you, novice witchling.” Emp swept by the door. “Hate is a viper that only serves to bite its master.” She walked away, yet her broom kept sweeping on its own.
“Stop reading my mind,” I muttered, picking at the crumbs on my plate.
“Don’t you ever get angry? Doesn’t it burn you alive that your ancestry of magic, of great witches, is now confined to only use kitchen witchery?
The only time I’m even able to ask questions freely or be trained in magic are on the solstices.
We are capable of so much more, Empath. And it’s this fear of Asund?—“
My lips sealed shut of their own accord, and I squirmed as I tried to fight the spell.
“ Silence!” The elder crone’s words echoed in my mind in a display of skill she rarely showcased.
“ There are eyes and ears you see not. There are names so wicked they break wards. What you water grows, child. ” Fetching my plate, the wrinkles around her eyes tensed.
“There’s a bucket of warm water in the back.
Feel free to freshen up. You don’t want to show up to the wedding looking like… well… that.”
The phantom skin around my lips evaporated, and I could move again.
It always startled and amazed me to see my coven leader’s enchantments up close—awed and enraged me, too.
How much more was Willowspire’s beloved crone meant to accomplish rather than being sequestered to kneading dough and cracking eggs.
Lukewarm water washed over me, muddying the bucket I stood in.
I raked my fingers through my long black hair, picking at twigs and pebbles as I did so.
They really buried me good this time. Those boys with names we don’t speak of.
Those sadist, evil, disgraceful boys, whose lofty, hidden presence influenced an entire town to live in fear of their ire.
Oh, but we were kept in check, weren’t we?
Our magic culled and controlled, our numbers slashed whenever the rapture came.
All while they watched in satisfaction as their graves below their estate multiplied with innocents.
Even still, waking up under a mound of earth wasn’t my worst affliction—not by a long shot.
My other curse was far worse, and the only ones to blame were the Blackthorne Boys, and blame them I did.
Though I’d only gotten my witch mark a year ago, and my skills were unpracticed because of Asunder’s rule of the Provences, I knew that my witch ancestry coursed through my veins.
Their fire was my rage, their magic was my magic, and training in spell work or not, I’d find a way to keep me and my sister safe. I’d done an okay job so far.
Each township had a ruling collective appointed by Asunder.
Overlords, basically. They allowed the plague in, or they kept it out.
They invite misery or they rule with benevolence.
For us, our appointed were the Blackthorne Lords.
Yet for decades, they sat comfortably in their regal estate shrouded by tall, spiked iron fences teeming with thorns.
Their grounds littered with graves as plentiful as the autumn leaves.
There were no longer town halls, and they did not ensure we had systems of trade with other districts, no, they didn’t bother and never showed their faces.
In fact, I’d never laid eyes on them. I was sure they were old, haggard, useless men of Asunder’s reign.
Calling them boys was merely an ancient crone insult.
Surely, after decades of tormenting Willowspire, they were anything but young.
Some townships may have counted us lucky for having such hands-off leaders.
Though it was far worse. The magical archways into the realms beyond were left open, unguarded, and the darkness crept in.
The dark blue fog took, slaughtered, and diminished our numbers with every passing year.
Girls went missing, mothers screamed in the night, and beasts howled in the forest beyond.
We weren’t just left to our own devices in Willowspire—we were abandoned. We’d been left to die.
Though even still, we diligently adhered to denying the practice of witchcraft beyond ordinary, Asunder approved uses.
Anything further would be blood in the water, attracting forces much greater than the fog and fangs that preyed upon us.
The rapture deployed to control us, take our magic-users who got out of line, and keep us afraid.
The rapture whisked away anyone whose magic leapt outside the fence line of our sheepish cage.
It had taken so many over the years—good witches who decided the risk was worth it, had paid dearly for their miscalculation.
Blue smoke would surely come, and the magical women would never be seen or heard from again.
A warning to all of us not to fight back, not to hope to be extraordinary, an urging to stay within the confines our monotony.
All the while, our leaders, our appointed headship—sat sated and happy in their gilded towers.
Never deigning to look our way as we screamed and sobbed our losses.
It was their magic that pulled me into one of their graves.
Though I couldn’t surmise why or how—my crone could only speculate it was some spell clicking into place because I hadn’t offered myself up for marriage yet—and I wouldn’t.
So instead, they dragged me six feet under, while unaware in the cage of my unconsciousness.
All the while the town was ravaged by the blue smoke.
Cowards. The Blackthorne Boys didn’t deserve to breathe.
What you water grows , Emp had said. Words of a crone chastising me, a warning, or perhaps…
veiled instruction. The kind of slow and subtle teaching only witches knew to impart.
Within her phrasing, an idea sprouted like a dandelion in a cemetery.
It was dangerous and reckless, and I’d conceal the thoughts within fortresses in my mind.
But water that dandelion I would.
Those wretched Blackthorne Boys better believe it.