Witch Clan: Matriarchs by John Stormm (best beach reads of all time TXT) 📖
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her face and body. The skin beneath was a healthy pink and completely unblistered.
“Mom, I was so afraid she’d be horribly disfigured,” Emma sobbed.
“Her kind of beauty doesn’t fade or mar easily,” Ella Mae said thoughtfully, looking at her granddaughter.
Ella Mae Shaw was a lovely, green eyed, red head with a white forelock. Her husband, Robert, was away much of the time on council business as an Iroquois chieftain. During these excursions, she would stay in her own room at her daughter’s home. Her daughter, Emma, got her iron black hair and dark eyes from her father. It seemed that adepts were incapable of passing their superficial traits on to their offspring. No matter, it was the deeper things that really counted.
Words like “witch,” or “coven” were never used in this household, even though it was the enlightened Twentieth Century, the persecution was sure to follow. Christian terms were used instead. A witch was a herbalist, a healer, or a midwife, and in place of a coven was the women’s circle. Every parish had one of those for bake sales and ladies’ auxiliaries and such. Outsiders never had a clue, though close kin and friends might have suspected these women were a bit too knowledgeable to be rank amateurs. In fact, husbands rarely suspected their spouses, and were content to leave women things to the women. Dinner was good, the children were well cared for, and the house was clean. What more could a man want to know?
Of her three daughters, Emma remained the closest to Ella Mae, to learn her craft. A fine rural midwife and still called often in emergencies. She had a singular gift for the healing arts. Emma idolized her.
Emma had four daughters and two sons. Mary, Margaret, Evelyn and Edward Junior had their mother’s dark, native features, while Johnny and Lorry were blond haired and blue eyed, the spitting image of Emma’s husband, Edward Senior.
Little Lorry doted on her father and had little time or inclination to learn the family craft. She was a tomboy and a heartbreaker, and enjoyed fitting in her own social circles. Ella Mae watched her carefully, considering what traits a non-adept like Lorry might pass on to an adept daughter.
Over the span of the next decade, Lorry blossomed into womanhood. When she dressed to go out for the evening, everyone remarked how she looked so much like the actress, Loretta Young. She would have the young men eating out of the palm of her hand like tame birds, but the only man in her life she really loved was her father. He was diabetic and had suffered a stroke that had paralyzed his left side. Lorry was there to faithfully administer his insulin shots. All the time, Ella Mae watched and noted her granddaughter’s progress as a woman.
It was the time of the summer solstice when she confided to Emma about her full plans for Lorry.
“I think Lorry will be the mother of our next matriarch,” she said.
“But Mary, Margaret and Evelyn are so much more active in the craft, “ Emma pointed out.
“True,” she said, “but we need a matriarch with the Anglo features, so sought after by men, to be able to wield the kind of influence we’ll need to move into the circles of power and effect change for our kind in the world. A woman, a president would not hesitate to marry for fear of what some might say. Every bit of charm we can add to the mix, will only advance our cause that much more.”
“Lorry certainly has those,” Emma conceded. “How will we insure that she bears the next adept, and one of that kind of strength?”
“We’ve been making progress getting contacts of the Sidhe in the Otherworld, through the use of our gazing bowl,” Ella Mae said. “From this well is where our traits originated, and from this well we will find Lorry’s husband.”
“How will you cause a Sidhe prince to cross over?” Emma asked, wide eyed. “Isn’t that dangerous to cross worlds like that?”
“Leave that to me,” she said smugly. “There are some of them, in the Otherworld, who have been misplaced by humanity and feel their true heritage lies here. This and my own blood gives them a link to this plane. A human wife of Lorry’s caliber will give them an even better foothold in this world. Actually, we only need him here long enough to conceive a child.”
“An unwed mother and bastard child won’t be an easy obstacle to surmount,” countered Emma.
“The clan can take care of Lorry, my dear,” she explained, “and men don’t think of girls as bastards. No matter, I was planning on an actual marriage and joining of worlds. A golden age of witchcraft and wizardry to dawn yet again on this world.”
“Won’t they try to overrun the planet,” Emma asked, referring to her favorite radio program, “like in ‘The War of the Worlds‘?”
“No, my sweet.” Ella Mae laughed. “There will be only one of them, and his lot will be best thrown with those of fae blood, like ourselves. Our goals will be in their best interest. There may be a price for this crossing, but I don‘t see much chance for failure, and everything is to be gained by it. I‘m prepared to pay for my dreams.”
She noted the look in her daughter’s eyes. Emma loved her, and had no reason to doubt her capabilities. Still, somehow, the mention of a price, seemed to trouble her daughter deeply.
“Don’t be such a worrywart, my dear,” she admonished. “You’ll be right by my side when we make our parley this Midsummer.”
At this, Emma brightened. It was just before sunrise on Midsummer’s Eve of 1952. Ella Mae was gathering her walking stick and belting a witch’s long knife under her apron. She and Emma had fasted since the day before and they would not break that fast until business was concluded later that day. Even then, it would be only a light meal before the real feasting began at Lughnasadh on the morrow.
The sun was barely peeking over the horizon as together they made their way into the forest at the edge of town. Ella Mae picked her way down a trail to a clear, north running stream with a large white oak on its banks. Emma was carrying a small iron cauldron with some coals from the stove, and a parcel wrapped in a cloth napkin tied to her apron strings. Where a game trail crossed the stream was a roughly rectangular stone about two feet high and three feet long. Ella Mae chose this spot to begin her calling ritual.
She crushed some rock salt with a fist sized stone from the stream on the crude altar. Emma scraped the resulting powder into a five inch circle filled by a cross aligned at the four cardinal directions. They set the cauldron at its base, on the altar, and sprinkled sandalwood onto the burning embers within. They centered themselves as the smoke from the incense arose. Raising her staff, Ella Mae spoke the agreed upon words of calling.
Over the crude altar a light sprang into existence.
“You have an offer for us, wise woman?” an androgynous voice called out in the Old Language.
“I have a fair bride, of my own children, to a worthy husband,” Ella Mae responded.
“And your expectations?” queried the voice.
“My clan requires a daughter of fae blood to lead our next generation in prosperity. The husband sought, would have a prominent place in our clan and in our world,” she intoned.
“And your bond to this end?” came the voice.
“The honor of a witch of the blood,” she said. “As my word, so mote it be.” With this she unsheathed her long knife and drew its razor edge across her left palm and squeezed a few drops of her own blood into the smoking cauldron on the rock.
“You will have your Sidhe husband for your daughter,” said the voice, “and you will have your fae child of this union. By the next equinox you will know him by the storm in his eyes.”
The light winked out over the altar. Ella Mae and her daughter cleaned up the evidence of their visit and returned home before the day was in full swing.
Sidhe Prince
“Mom, I was so afraid she’d be horribly disfigured,” Emma sobbed.
“Her kind of beauty doesn’t fade or mar easily,” Ella Mae said thoughtfully, looking at her granddaughter.
Ella Mae Shaw was a lovely, green eyed, red head with a white forelock. Her husband, Robert, was away much of the time on council business as an Iroquois chieftain. During these excursions, she would stay in her own room at her daughter’s home. Her daughter, Emma, got her iron black hair and dark eyes from her father. It seemed that adepts were incapable of passing their superficial traits on to their offspring. No matter, it was the deeper things that really counted.
Words like “witch,” or “coven” were never used in this household, even though it was the enlightened Twentieth Century, the persecution was sure to follow. Christian terms were used instead. A witch was a herbalist, a healer, or a midwife, and in place of a coven was the women’s circle. Every parish had one of those for bake sales and ladies’ auxiliaries and such. Outsiders never had a clue, though close kin and friends might have suspected these women were a bit too knowledgeable to be rank amateurs. In fact, husbands rarely suspected their spouses, and were content to leave women things to the women. Dinner was good, the children were well cared for, and the house was clean. What more could a man want to know?
Of her three daughters, Emma remained the closest to Ella Mae, to learn her craft. A fine rural midwife and still called often in emergencies. She had a singular gift for the healing arts. Emma idolized her.
Emma had four daughters and two sons. Mary, Margaret, Evelyn and Edward Junior had their mother’s dark, native features, while Johnny and Lorry were blond haired and blue eyed, the spitting image of Emma’s husband, Edward Senior.
Little Lorry doted on her father and had little time or inclination to learn the family craft. She was a tomboy and a heartbreaker, and enjoyed fitting in her own social circles. Ella Mae watched her carefully, considering what traits a non-adept like Lorry might pass on to an adept daughter.
Over the span of the next decade, Lorry blossomed into womanhood. When she dressed to go out for the evening, everyone remarked how she looked so much like the actress, Loretta Young. She would have the young men eating out of the palm of her hand like tame birds, but the only man in her life she really loved was her father. He was diabetic and had suffered a stroke that had paralyzed his left side. Lorry was there to faithfully administer his insulin shots. All the time, Ella Mae watched and noted her granddaughter’s progress as a woman.
It was the time of the summer solstice when she confided to Emma about her full plans for Lorry.
“I think Lorry will be the mother of our next matriarch,” she said.
“But Mary, Margaret and Evelyn are so much more active in the craft, “ Emma pointed out.
“True,” she said, “but we need a matriarch with the Anglo features, so sought after by men, to be able to wield the kind of influence we’ll need to move into the circles of power and effect change for our kind in the world. A woman, a president would not hesitate to marry for fear of what some might say. Every bit of charm we can add to the mix, will only advance our cause that much more.”
“Lorry certainly has those,” Emma conceded. “How will we insure that she bears the next adept, and one of that kind of strength?”
“We’ve been making progress getting contacts of the Sidhe in the Otherworld, through the use of our gazing bowl,” Ella Mae said. “From this well is where our traits originated, and from this well we will find Lorry’s husband.”
“How will you cause a Sidhe prince to cross over?” Emma asked, wide eyed. “Isn’t that dangerous to cross worlds like that?”
“Leave that to me,” she said smugly. “There are some of them, in the Otherworld, who have been misplaced by humanity and feel their true heritage lies here. This and my own blood gives them a link to this plane. A human wife of Lorry’s caliber will give them an even better foothold in this world. Actually, we only need him here long enough to conceive a child.”
“An unwed mother and bastard child won’t be an easy obstacle to surmount,” countered Emma.
“The clan can take care of Lorry, my dear,” she explained, “and men don’t think of girls as bastards. No matter, I was planning on an actual marriage and joining of worlds. A golden age of witchcraft and wizardry to dawn yet again on this world.”
“Won’t they try to overrun the planet,” Emma asked, referring to her favorite radio program, “like in ‘The War of the Worlds‘?”
“No, my sweet.” Ella Mae laughed. “There will be only one of them, and his lot will be best thrown with those of fae blood, like ourselves. Our goals will be in their best interest. There may be a price for this crossing, but I don‘t see much chance for failure, and everything is to be gained by it. I‘m prepared to pay for my dreams.”
She noted the look in her daughter’s eyes. Emma loved her, and had no reason to doubt her capabilities. Still, somehow, the mention of a price, seemed to trouble her daughter deeply.
“Don’t be such a worrywart, my dear,” she admonished. “You’ll be right by my side when we make our parley this Midsummer.”
At this, Emma brightened. It was just before sunrise on Midsummer’s Eve of 1952. Ella Mae was gathering her walking stick and belting a witch’s long knife under her apron. She and Emma had fasted since the day before and they would not break that fast until business was concluded later that day. Even then, it would be only a light meal before the real feasting began at Lughnasadh on the morrow.
The sun was barely peeking over the horizon as together they made their way into the forest at the edge of town. Ella Mae picked her way down a trail to a clear, north running stream with a large white oak on its banks. Emma was carrying a small iron cauldron with some coals from the stove, and a parcel wrapped in a cloth napkin tied to her apron strings. Where a game trail crossed the stream was a roughly rectangular stone about two feet high and three feet long. Ella Mae chose this spot to begin her calling ritual.
She crushed some rock salt with a fist sized stone from the stream on the crude altar. Emma scraped the resulting powder into a five inch circle filled by a cross aligned at the four cardinal directions. They set the cauldron at its base, on the altar, and sprinkled sandalwood onto the burning embers within. They centered themselves as the smoke from the incense arose. Raising her staff, Ella Mae spoke the agreed upon words of calling.
Over the crude altar a light sprang into existence.
“You have an offer for us, wise woman?” an androgynous voice called out in the Old Language.
“I have a fair bride, of my own children, to a worthy husband,” Ella Mae responded.
“And your expectations?” queried the voice.
“My clan requires a daughter of fae blood to lead our next generation in prosperity. The husband sought, would have a prominent place in our clan and in our world,” she intoned.
“And your bond to this end?” came the voice.
“The honor of a witch of the blood,” she said. “As my word, so mote it be.” With this she unsheathed her long knife and drew its razor edge across her left palm and squeezed a few drops of her own blood into the smoking cauldron on the rock.
“You will have your Sidhe husband for your daughter,” said the voice, “and you will have your fae child of this union. By the next equinox you will know him by the storm in his eyes.”
The light winked out over the altar. Ella Mae and her daughter cleaned up the evidence of their visit and returned home before the day was in full swing.
Sidhe Prince
Late September of 1952, she and Emma sat out on the front porch doing their needlework. It was a balmy autumn day, the foliage on the trees had not even begun to turn to their fall colors, when a tall, dark haired stranger came striding up the sidewalk to the house.
“It would appear that Lorry has yet another gentleman caller.” Ella Mae nodded in his direction.
“He looks every bit like Jimmie Dean, the folksinger,” Emma remarked. “Where does she find all these men?”
The gentleman in question stopped and placed one foot on the front steps and bowed at the waist as he extended one arm.
“Good day to you fine ladies,” he said in a mellifluous voice. “My name is Lee Shamblynn. I met Lorry at her job at the
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