In the morning, I awaken to the flickering of shadows as they dance across my bedroom. I see something that looks like a cat, which is no surprise. I have fourteen of them.

But this is my grandma’s house, in Pennsylvania, and it was June 14th that my grandma’s most beloved cat passed away. His name was August (we mostly just called him Augie). He was seventeen years old.

I rise from the king-sized bed that once belonged to my grandfather. Grandpa died a couple of years ago, though it feels like yesterday. He was bed-ridden; the cats would climb up and sleep in between his legs, especially Tremont. When I was a kid, my mom told me, “When a cat lies on your stomach, it means that he or she wants to make you feel better.” Something about a cat having healing abilities, or the skills to sense an unbalance in another living creature. Maybe that was why Tremont spent the last few days of my grandfather’s life curled up in his lap.

Today, I sense a presence. It’s Augie. I smile and climb out of bed. “Augie, is that you?” The sunlight dances through the crystals and the glass beads that hang in the windows of my grandfather’s old bedroom. This room is a legacy of life and death, of happiness and sorrow, a conglomeration of everything that it means to be alive.

A shadow passed toward the door. I follow it.

I step outside into a beautiful summer day. I’m on the back porch of my grandmother’s house, surveying her beautiful garden, where flowers of all types intertwine, reminding me of a painting by Monet. In the backyard, I see something that wasn’t there before–and altar.

The altar sits atop of large tree stump, the remnants of an ancient oak. “Augie?”

He’s sitting on top of the altar, amongst a few candles and some crystals, staring up toward the sky. “Mew,” he says.

“Augie, what are you doing here?”

He turns and looks at me. He doesn’t speak (at least not the way I speak)… But I hear his words. Just checking on Grandma, he says.

I smile. “She’s okay. She’s going to be just fine.”

He nods. And disappears.

“Oh great Sky Father, loose your power upon us. Make us your own!” Her words were spoken with clarity, certainty, and power.

The eleven others gathered around her in the circle repeated, “Sky Father, make us your own!”

The wind rose, and Raina’s long dark hair blew across her face as she once again shouted, “Sky Father, make us your own!”

This time, as the eleven gathered repeated the declaration, lightning flashed across the dark sky.

For the third time, Raina repeated, “Sky Father, make us your own!” and the rain began to fall!

The eleven who stood, raised their hands to catch the drops, the blessings from the father.

Raina kneeled down on the earth, “Oh Earth Mother, bring your power to raise up around us. Make us your own!”

The others kneeled, and repeated her words, “Earth Mother, make us your own!”

Again Raina beseeched the earth and again the words were repeated.

The third time Raina touched the earth, a small garden snake slithered across the circle, causing some of the others to jump, startled, but they, too, touched the earth, repeating the words, “Earth Mother, make us your own!”

A rumble was heard deep in the earth and the eleven put their palms down to feel their mother tremble with power.

They looked toward Raina, now standing, and glowing with an effusive light.

“Now we are ready,” she declared as she faced her circle, holding out her hands to either side. The eleven stood and they all clasped hands, forming an unbroken circuit of energy that ran between them, growing ever stronger as they chanted.

Earth Mother, Sky Father, we are your voices
Earth Mother, Sky Father, we are your touch

Over and over, the same words were uttered, as the power grew and an almost imperceptible glow circled around all of them. As the power rose, so did the volume of their chant.

In the distance, a pack of coyotes howled to the moon in answer to the chant.

On the other side of the city, a woman hugged her child a bit more tightly than usual as she tucked him in for the night.

Two towns over, two lovers cried out in unison as their lovemaking reached its peak with an intensity neither had ever experienced before.

In another state, a medicine man knew his time had come to share the wisdom of his people with other races, and he prepared for the pilgrimage that would take him to those who were ready to receive it.

A writer finished the book about world peace that she knew would be her masterpiece.

On the other side of the world, an artist put the finishing touches on a painting that expressed the intricate unity of all of nature.

“It is finished!” Raina let go of the hands of those around her and pushed the energy upward. The others followed suit, and they all collapsed on the ground, held by their mother, soft rain from their father blessing them from above.

Linda Costello  has been following a druid path since 1991, after studying ceremonial magic for 20 years with Servants of the Light. Originally hailing from Massachusetts, Linda has been living in Scottsdale, AZ since 1996. Currently working as a holistic life coach, Linda also owns a comic book store with her partner, Avery, and her two grown sons, Andy and Sean. She is currently working on two books, a pagan anthology and a non-fiction work entitled Wholistic Prosperity.

This piece was tied for the Second Runner Up in the 2010 PWC Flash Fiction Contest.

I step-stumble into a hole of freezing watery gray mush…another gray holdup to my reaching the redness of life, the blood of creation and rebirth, now seemingly farther and farther away. If I do not reach the holly bush with its gleaming berries I will surely succumb to the writhing of the gray wraiths peeking around every cracked and fallen headstone in the graveyard. The holly leaves and berries were about as far away as the house was. The middle. The gray halfway point. To go ahead cold, wet and frozen or to return to the strangling, insidious, sullied warmth of the claustrophobic house with all its mildew and cracking paint. Both a goodly distance.

Now my foot felt heavy. I felt as if I was walking in snow up to my elbows…cement gray eyes were. I chose to follow the path of least resistance. The path I had made step-shuffling-stumbling my way to the holly bush. Just a quick change of clothes and off I would go again as I still craved the blood-berries. I look over my shoulder and try to see the berries in order to glean a little warrior courage. I was just too exhausted, eyes misted over, to hard to see the red so I trudge, head down covered in gray ice on to the house that has no gray smoke coming from the chimney. Not warm; winter sky-colored slate cold. I had forgotten to stoke the fire. I trudge-slip on.

I make it back to the house in cold-slow-dreamtime. I drag myself in. I feel the invisible, empty, appalling feeling no more than thirty steps from the heart of the house. I brought the dead-gray ghostly enmeshment with me. Gray, sparkling silver in-front-of-my-eyes dots settled over me like a heavy veil. Apparitions…gray, of course, were swirling languidly around and through me. Reaching for me. Disallowing wakefulness and the desire to go to the life. I am horrified which momentarily takes me from the totally self-absorbed, negative despair. My heart could not decide whether to stop beating or to continue playing a strange, syncopated dirge in my chest.

I had to leave. No dry clothes for me. I would crawl if I had to and crawl I did. And, I made it, an hour later as the sun left the sky. Nightfall. Dark. The absence of light. I grabbed the twisted gnarled and gray trunk of the holly bush and pulled a branch full of red berries close to me. No use. Black is the absence of color. Black is the absence of color. Black is the absence of color.

Since I hovered over my body unwilling to let go, to go to the light that betrayed me, an acquaintance found me four days later, my body frozen with the holly branch clutched to my chest where my heart finally chose to stop beating. I had neighbors, but I knew them not even after living in the cold house with the peeling paint for 17 years. That did not stop them from gossiping about the old woman who lived alone after her husband died and who kept all those gray cats with gray eyes that mourned her even less. What on earth had she been doing hugging a tree in the dead, gray cold of winter soon-to-come spring and new life that was so important as to cause her demise?

She wondered if she would ever see the color red again and mourned. She wondered if her blood would ever run red again and mourned. She wondered if she had life to do all over again if she would do it differently. And, mourned.

She was cremated but there was no one to keep her gray ashes in the gray-pewter urn paid for by her husband before he died. So she was just incinerated and left to find life with all the other gray, dead dust particles surrounding and smothering her.

Ashes to ashes and dust-to-dust…maybe there was hope.

Merideth Allyn has written journalistically and creatively for 30 years. She has been published in 10 anthologies for poetry and short stories, winning numerous awards, conducted readings, written for three newspapers and is currently writing for the Jackson Sun in Jackson, Tennessee with over 75,000 subscribers. She has had her fiction and interviews published in pagan magazines including Modern Witch. Her photography has also won awards and was on the cover of Modern Witch magazine’s Yule issue.

This piece was tied for the Second Runner Up in the 2010 PWC Flash Fiction Contest.

The most spectacular meteor shower in years is taking place. Blue streaks. Green streaks. Yellow streaks break in two and whistle through the sky. That was a big one, I think to myself. The desert night is chilly, but I’m well bundled in layers and a good sleeping bag.

A few more bright ones and the peak is over. The unprepared drift or drive away.  The dust settles and it’s just me and a very few others left. We settle in to our assigned slumber places, far enough away that people noises are a minimum, even in the desolate quiet. Soon, all that can be heard is the breeze through unmoving Joshua Trees. I lean the chair back farther and let my eyes close and prepare for a couple hours of sleep before dawn and moving on. But, I don’t get far. Through lidded eyes I see light travelling fast, and I gaze up in time to see a fireball streak the sky. It looks like it will hit Earth! I leap from my wrappings and watch the light disappear behind a nearby rock formation. Curiosity draws me and I hear the crunching of my shoes on gravelly dirt as I make my way toward the last place I saw the light.

Softer sand means silent walking, and I round the bend of the dirt road to the far side of the large boulders on quiet feet. He is there and of course He heard me. Wild One. Lord of the Desert. Muscular and brown and strong and free. The hair on the back of my neck and arms stands on end, my nipples harden, and my skin goes moist. I can’t decide whether to flee or run toward Him, and so I stupidly stand there, eyes wide and mouth agape. His eyes look into mine, and there is nothing else in the world but Him.

He throws me a crooked smile.

My human body stays standing, frozen in its place, but my Fetch self awakens with recognition. My mind expands beyond its cranial confines. I am outside of my body and my animal self manifests physically. I am mountain lion and human and Divine, and I approach Him, glee filling my heart.

He takes my hand and we take off running. We run, run, run across the fields, trip through washes, leap over Cholla cactus and gazelle over Creosault bushes. We vault up mountains and rush into the air where we are flying, flying over the great, vast basin, seeing Brother Coyote below, and Sister Bobcat, and the other animals of the desert night. They greet us as we fly by, and we greet them and send love and wishes of good hunting and prosperity their way.

He looks at me with love, and my eyes return the same. We spin into the air, straight up, not feeling the cold of altitude, and then we are swooping down, down into the siroccos that make the spiraling sand clouds, warm and laughing, landing on the rock formations, hiding, leaping out at each other, startling, turning cartwheels and leaping back flips, embracing each other, sharing. Intense sharing. Joy. Simple joy. And then stillness.

And the sharing is over. And the parting must now come. The first light glows the mountain tops to a faint purple, and Brother Coyote sings.  The air beyond moves over us and gently sweeps over the land, bringing with it a return to this world.

And so I am returned to my human form. My mind collapses back into its cranial cage and my Fetch settles itself back into the center of my being. Like a deflated balloon, I come back into the world that I know, and I see Him, there, in the crescent moon light and rose of dawn, watching. And fading.

A crooked smile.

And I’m once again agape.

And He is gone.

Sandy Lareau is the publisher and editor of Modern Witch Magazine (currently out of print) and works as an aerospace technical writer.  She keeps busy in her garden and with herbalism and perfumery projects.  She is currently teaching witchcraft to local students and hopes to someday have a regular circle for holiday and Esbat celebrations and study. One day she would like to resurrect the magazine that brought her so much joy, possibly in an electronic version.

This piece was the First Runner Up in the 2010 PWC Flash Fiction Contest.

It would never start on a Tuesday, maybe a Wednesday. It would only be on a sunny day with drifting pollen in the air. The cat would purr and twist, writhing with the pleasure of the day. She would see him and see the fire and not turn away. He would see her and forget all the words and ideas and names he goes by, instead seeing the warmth and peace in her.

They’ll go together and be as one energy, one flame and balance of all things incarnate. The warm sun will blanket their bodies with its glow adding to their own. Outside, the world turns on, neither knowing nor caring. The trees do not say but this is not, she is not, he is not. The birds don’t tweet to each other of the goings on in the warm sunlit room. The cat simply watches and purrs, basking in the warmth surrounding her.

The day passes on and ends, life resumes. They both move in silence, preparing to resume their names and ideas and words. She is content, he is exhilarated. The cat waits to be fed. The dream has become real.

But for now, they sit, together, talking but not saying. Days and weeks and years pass them by, the words are not said. The ideas drown out the dreams, the doubts linger.

Perhaps this is how it is meant to be, perhaps the dream is all there is. Perhaps all would be destroyed in the moment they let go of the fear and the resistance and the wondering.

But the trees cannot care, the birds have far more interesting things to tweet about than the goings on of people. The cat will still purr, the room will still be warm. Whether she and he dream or live, the world will turn on and still not know or care.

Heather Stockwell is a witch of all trades: writing, editing, reading Tarot, making charms, studying Herbs and much more. She loves writing Flash Fiction because she has a short attention span and loves painting a picture with words. Heather lives with her husband, daughter and three cats on Winter Hill.

This piece took the Grand Prize in the 2010 PWC Flash Fiction Contest.

The neighbors didn’t like it when she drank in front of them.  But then, why did they pay attention? She often saw Janis (the younger woman next door) leaning on the picket fence that separated their properties.  She was always pretending to work in her garden, but Alice knew that she was really watching her.  The old woman grimaced and picked up her trowel.  She squeezed the dirty handle, feeling a bit of moist soil under her fingers as she imagined that the wood was Janis’ supple neck.  Then she turned and walked toward the house, leaving the dirt road behind her.  She closed the door just as a ’57 Chevy passed by, its engine roaring under the graying sky.

*

The house was completely silent, save for the ticking of the clocks.  An older man who held a half-empty beer bottle occupied the kitchen.  He was sitting at the table, staring toward the window that looked out into the front yard.  There was a clock over the window.  Alfred hated clocks, because the only thing he ever heard was the tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock…

“Alfred!”

“What?” the man mumbled.  Alice came into the kitchen, frowning sordidly.

“Janis next door was looking again.”

“So?”

“Well, she’s always doing it.  Such a nosy woman.  I don’t know why Bert married her in the first place.”  Alice opened the fridge and looked at the sparse contents.  “What do you… hm… what do you want for dinner?”

“Soup’s fine.  I’m gonna go take a nap.”

“Alfred, all you ever do is sleep.  For the past few weeks; sleep, sleep, sleep.”

The old man had already pushed himself out of his seat and was trundling into the hallway.  He stumbled against the wall, dropping his beer to the floor.  The house was dark, just the way he liked it.  The rooms seemed to merge due to the lack of light.  There appeared to be no end to the raven black corners.  Alfred slipped past a small cabinet and burped.  He disappeared into the darkness, like a specter into another world.

*

Down the street, the rain pounded relentlessly against a stone house.  A younger woman, her hair silver edged by years of frustration, peered out the window of her kitchen and promptly pulled the curtains shut upon setting eyes on the yellow house, just barely visible beyond the far-off trees.  Polly turned to the child that sat at the table.  The little girl had her hands folded before a half-empty bowl of soup.  She was staring into the chunked depths of the dinner, which was no longer steaming, having been left sitting for much too long.  The child’s mother sighed heavily.

“I’m going to have to go over to Alice’s tomorrow.”  She turned to the sink and began putting away the clean dishes.  “She’s losing her marbles.  I don’t expect that she’ll be around much longer.”  The child frowned and looked toward the plump, matronly figure across the room.

“What do you mean? Where’s she going?” The ten-year old stared quizzically at her mother until the woman turned around and leaned against the counter.

“You never know, dear.  She may still be in her late fifties, but…” Polly didn’t want to admit to the little girl that Alice was a drunk, along with her husband; two disturbed people that lived off the misery of the other.  “They’re just unhappy.  They need my help.”

“I heard my friend at school talking about her.  She says she’s weird.”

“She is that.”

“Can I come with you when you go to help her?”

“No.  You’ll stay home and do your chores.”

“Yes, mama.”

*

Alice stumbled out of the kitchen.  Her clothing was askew and her hair stuck out in various directions.  She thought she saw something moving in the shadows, but she was used to that.  The darkness reached out to her with clawed fingers, searching and pulling, grasping and ripping at her.

“Alfred,” she muttered.  “Al?” She heard no sound.  Stumbling down the hall, she came to the door of the basement.  It was slightly open.  She pushed it and it creaked.  The steps were dusty and worn, cluttered with globs of cobweb that stretched out in the corners like little skeletal men.  “Alfred?” Sure enough, there was a shape on the landing, sitting there, still and silent.  “Alfred.”  Alice slumped against the doorframe and took another swig of her whiskey.  “What are you doing down there? You can’t sit there all the time.”

She thought she heard him say, “I can.”

“Fine.  I’m going to bed.  You can stay there all night for all I care.”

*

The next day, Alfred was still sitting on the landing.  There would be the occasional ‘clunk’ from the steps, suggesting that he was moving about, but it didn’t happen often.  Alfred has always been lazy, Alice thought.  He lost every job he acquired and wasted his time on foolish endeavors, like when he’d started writing a novel.  Alice vaguely recalled that he’d gotten to page fifty and given up; he was that useless.  The summer before last, he had tried to build an intricate birdhouse for the backyard.  After he gave up on it, he started drinking even more heavily.  He would sit at the kitchen table for hours, listening to the clock tick, tock, tick, tock… until Alice came in the house and yelled at him, a whiskey bottle in hand.

He’s a useless bum.  Alice growled under her breath.  She made supper, but Alfred never came to eat any.  She left a dish of macaroni and cheese on the top step beyond the basement door.

“There! Eat, Alfred.  Lazy, that’s all you’ll ever be.”  She slammed the door shut and left the hallway as the dark, impenetrable shadow seemed to consume it.

*

A rat scurried along the basement floor and sniffed at a brown leather shoe.  It ignored the man that was slumped against the wall.  It took a while, but the rat managed to reach the top step where it nibbled almost silently on the cold dinner that sat there on a piece of chipped china.  When the furnace came on, it was almost a voice.  The man seemed to speak through machinery like a spirit through a tape recorder.

*

Polly ambled along the road in the early evening until she reached the yellow house.  The garden looked horrible.  Alice always talked about how she cared for it daily, but it didn’t reflect all the time she spent gabbing about how lovely it was.  The flowers were overgrown with weeds, there were empty bottles lying in the uncut grass and a paper bag had blown over from God-knows-where and was presently fluttering among a collection of dead rose bushes.

The woman meandered around broken glass and found herself on the doorstep.  She lifted a hand and knocked uncertainly on the door.  No one answered for a moment.  Finally, a husky voice emanated from somewhere within.

“Come in!”

Polly entered the house somewhat gingerly, a wrapped package under her arm.

“Alice?” She turned left into the kitchen and set the bundle down on the table.  The old woman was busying herself with dishes at the sink, though it seemed like she hadn’t bothered with them in a long time; the stack of dirty plates and cups was high indeed.  Had she begun cleaning them when Polly arrived, simply for the sake of appearance? The old woman turned about and flashed a quick yet insincere smile.  There was a bottle of liquor on the counter, but the crone seemed surprisingly lucid.

“Polly, dear, you know you don’t have to do these things for me.  What is that?”

“Bread.  I baked it yesterday.  I just came over to check on you two, see if you needed anything.  And I even decided I would make you dinner.”  Polly went to the fridge and opened the metal door; the shelves were nearly empty, save for a few things that were either expired or moldy.  She turned to Alice, her brow furrowing.  “When was the last time you ate?”

“Oh, I didn’t have any breakfast, but I do recall making macaroni.  Alfred had some.”

“Did you have any?”

“Oh, I… I think I did.”

“There’s a plate of it over there on the counter.”  Polly closed the fridge door and prodded at the cold dish of macaroni and cheese.  Several flies buzzed up from its edges, apparently angry at the interruption.  “Oh and, dear, you don’t have to worry about making us anything.  I have a pot of soup on.  Alfred wanted soup.”  The old woman slipped into a chair at the table and grappled for the half-empty can of beer that sat on the other side.  When she got a hold of it, she gulped it down gratefully.

Polly went over to the stove.  A pot sat on its surface, but there was no fire beneath it.  After a short investigation, the pot proved brimming with soup, but the concoction was cold and the surface was coated with putrescent fungi.  It could only mean that the soup had been sitting there for days on end; Alice had either forgotten all about it, or her concept of time was severely skewed.

“Alice.”  Polly put the lid back on the pot and turned to the old lady, whose shoulders were wrapped in a shawl and whose feet were bare on the chilly linoleum.  “When did you make that soup?”

“Today.”

“How old was it? Was it canned?”

“I think the can is still over there.”  Alice gestured toward the counter with a white, veined hand.  When Polly found the can, she read the label.  Her eyes widened in disbelief.

“This soup expired a year ago.  You didn’t eat any of this, did you?”

“Don’t be silly! I bought it last week.”

Polly frowned and set the can down.  The shadows seemed to beckon from the hallway.  It was as though the kitchen was the only earthly part of this sorrowful abode.  For as long as she could remember, in all the times that she had visited Alice’s run-down house, the only lights had been in the kitchen.  The rest of the house was bathed in dust and darkness, like catacombs that hadn’t been touched in thousands of years.  She shivered as she peered into the darkness that took a sharp left into a short hallway and led inevitably to the basement.

*

Thirty minutes later, Alice opened the front door.  In between a pair of policemen, a little girl stood with eyes wide in endless curiosity.  Alice couldn’t quite place who she was, until the child ran into the house and embraced her mother, Polly.  The policemen confronted Alice, who smiled, her lips twitching.

“Can I help you?” she inquired politely.  The two men closed the door behind them.  The sun had gone down, but it wasn’t much lighter in here, where each room was like a bottomless pit.

“Which one of you called?” the youngest man asked.  His hair was black under the navy blue hat and he had a thick mustache that almost quivered when he spoke.

“That was me, officer,” Polly said.

“What’s the trouble?”

“Can you give me a moment?” Polly’s lips twitched upward nervously and she leaned down slightly to address her daughter.  “Honey, what are you…”

“I wanted to come.”

“Sit in the kitchen and wait, then.”

“Mama!”

“Just do it.”

The little girl stalked angrily into the kitchen and sat in one of the chairs, her arms crossed over her chest.  Polly turned back to the officers.  “It’s this way…”

The hallway was decorated with nicotine stained paisley wallpaper, its abhorrent design giving way to a world not unlike the melancholy memories that Alice harbored in her tattered mind.  The basement door was at the end of the hall, its wood slightly splintered at the bottom.  It was half-open and Polly recoiled at the sight.

“Down there.”  She pointed toward the entrance and stepped back.  The two policemen ventured down the stairs and Polly advised that they should be watching where their feet fell; the light in the dank lower level didn’t work.

When the two men came back up, the younger one with a flashlight in hand, their faces had less color and they appeared unnerved.  Alice approached them, her hands clasped before her as though she were praying.

“What’s wrong?” she wondered aloud.

“Ma’am,” one of the officers began.  He looked at Polly, then at his partner and finally back to Alice.  “Your friend here told me on the phone about your husband.  He’s dead.  It appears he has been for several days.  I noticed a plate of food on the steps.  You didn’t think he was alive down there did you?”

Alice stared at the police officer.  Polly wasn’t sure if the news had completely registered in her mind.

“I heard him talking,” the old woman muttered.  “He was only sleeping! Alfred has always been lazy.  He fell asleep on the landing.”

“No, ma’am.”  This time it was the older cop who spoke.  “He must have fallen and… I hate to say this straight to you, but he broke his neck.  He was drunk at the time.  We can only assume that by the broken bottle on the floor.  Polly here didn’t notice the smell right away, but when she did, she followed it and called us afterwards.  What were you doing then, ma’am?”

“I was in the kitchen, sitting with the little girl.”  The old woman turned around and saw the child’s face peering around the corner of the only lit room in the house.  Polly quickly scolded her daughter.  She hurried over and grabbed her hand, dragging her toward the door.

“Alice, I have to go home now.  But these men can help you, I’m sure.”

“Polly, stay!” But before the old woman could protest anymore, the other woman had ushered her child out the front door and away from a chilling experience that would nevertheless haunt her forever.

The old woman turned back to the police officers.  “I don’t understand,” she murmured.  “Why don’t you tell Alfred to get up? He does this all the time.  Maybe he’ll listen to you.  He never listens to me…”

“Ma’am, it’s time to go.  Alfred won’t listen to anyone anymore.”  The two officers took Alice gently by either arm and led her to the front door.  She mumbled all the way.

The front door was closed tightly after they left.  The house sunk into a final, irksome silence.  An ambulance would be along shortly to collect the body on the landing.  Deep in the abyss of the pitch-black basement, the furnace came on, like an inextricable voice whispering in the night.

When Anya Silverwillow finally saw a glint of the small village of Precan the sun had already set and the moons of Mernac shared its sky. Wishing she left sooner in the day, the Kalatian priestess picked up her pace so she would not be far from the city when night fell. Stories of the fate of those picked up by the Lord of Darkness’ Glorius Undead frightened even the most experienced travelers. She tried not to think of the horrific tales and quickened her pace even more.

Pulling the light cloak she wore closer to cover her gauzy white dress. I should have worn a heavier dress, the girl silently scolded herself as she trudged through the icy night. I should have known better. The north of Arden is frigid at night, this time of the season. Though Anya finally attained the title of Priestess, it was clear to her, if no one else that there was much for her to learn still. She untied the ribbon that held her hair up so that the long sandy-colored mane would help to shield her neck and ears from the chill. Her green eyes watered, but she was not sure if it was the wind or the difficult situation she was about to face.

Instead of fretting over what she had, or had not done or the mysteries hiding in the shadows of the great trees that lined her path, Anya decided to think more about the reason for her mission to the remote village. Miriam Hawke, the aging wife of Arden’s most affluent merchant, came to her temple requesting their assistance in rescuing a young girl named Lucia Drach. Lucia’s father Victor had once been the blacksmith of Precan. The rough, burly man was not well liked and had only a few friends among the residents. His hot temper and abuse of Lucia’s mother Cecile made most of the townsfolk wary of the large man.

According to Miriam, Cecile had died recently, leaving young Lucia to the whims of her father’s violent moods. Victor had given up smithing, spending most of his time drunk off his arse in the tavern. Having no place else to go, his daughter was forced to sit by herself silently by the fire while her father drank, gambled and boozed. It was a miserable existence. If Lucia moved or made noise while her father was still conscious he would yell obscenities or hit her.

From the look in Miriam’s eyes it had broken the old lady’s heart to see such violence towards a child. She considered taking the child in herself, but the roads, especially in Arden, are no place for children. Far better she have her husband set out for Port Kellen immediately and contact the Kalatian temple the minute they arrived.

The tales of abuse did not fall on deaf ears within the temple. Anya had been on her way within an hour of Miriam’s arrival.

Despite her oath to love all of the people and creatures of Mernac, Anya felt anger and hate towards this girl’s father. I wonder how anyone could be so evil, she thought to herself, clenching her fists at her sides.

She arrived on the edge of the village just as the last rays of the sun disappeared for their nightly slumber. The blue moon of Mernac, Araf, had a faint but large ring encircling it. Her teachers called this ring a Halo, an omen from the Gods. It was a sign of great good or a warning of great misfortune to those that saw it. Anya hoped that the side of good would prevail this evening and tried to push away her anxiety that something bad would happen.

Having visited this area before, she knew that the Singing Sparrow tavern was the largest and most well lit structure in town. She also recalled that the inhabitants during her last visit had been carrying on in such a manner that she suggested to another priestess that it should have been called the Squawking Sparrow instead. Chuckling to herself, she made her way towards the tavern and to a child that would need her help.

The smell of urine and ale overwhelmed her senses as she opened the door and stepped into the crowded main room of the tavern. With her stomach churning it took all that she had to keep from vomiting. She closed the door shut behind her and stood in the doorway trying to regain her composure. The tavern was packed that evening. A few tables were scattered along the perimeter of the large room, but most were shoved closely together in front of the bar. Most of the patrons of the bar were male, but there were a few women scattered here and there.

Over half of the eyes in the bar, including a large aging man behind the bar, were on her. Priestesses, especially those pledged to the Mothers, were a rarity in this area. The people of Arden were drawn to the Fathers even though there were not many that followed any particular religion. She ignored the stares and looked around the room to find Lucia. In her urgency to complete her mission and get out of the disgusting tavern she almost did not see the little figure huddled on her knees near the fire. Upon seeing the child she thought to herself, Oh my goddess!

Even from halfway across the room, Anya could see the child clutching something small against her and was covered in mud and dirt. As she strode in her direction she could see that the child’s long hair, which she assumed was brown, was matted against her head and full of mud. The girl’s shift was dirty as well and looked to be too small for the growing girl. The child looked like she had not getting enough food. Bruises lined her arms and legs like she was beaten daily. Her body was way too lean for her age and had no muscle tone. Dark circles outlined the most beautiful brown eyes she had ever seen. The eyes looking back were sad and fearful.

As Anya approached the girl, those dark brown eyes looked up at her full of curiosity and wonder. Lucia obviously had never seen a priestess before, but she was definitely intrigued. When the priestess sat down on a bench on the other side of the fire, the child did not move, but followed her with her eyes. The item she was holding so close was a doll made of cloth. One of the button eyes was missing and the doll’s painted smile had faded.

“What did I tell you about harassing people in the tavern girl,” boomed a loud male voice from a nearby table. From the wide-eyed and frightened look on the girl’s face, Anya could tell that it had come from Victor.

“She is not bothering me,” she spoke up quickly, standing as she turned towards the direction of the speaker. She noticed that a hush had fallen over the entire tavern as she was finally able to figure out who had spoken. A large man ambled slowly towards her. He looked like he had once been a very strong man, but abandoning his trade and spending his time drinking was making him fat. He bounced off chairs, tables and other patrons on his way in her direction. She moved between him and the child.

“Actually I was wondering if she would like to join me for a spot of supper,” she continued before he had the chance to say anything else.

Just as loud as before, but slower and more slurred he asked, “Now why would you want to do that? That li’l git is disgusting and rude.” He sneered at Lucia, who moved closer up against the wall and cowered.

“I have had a long journey and would like some company,” she replied quickly and much more forcefully than she intended. She would have to work to get his attention off the girl.

“Suit yourself, but she ruins my appetite.”

Anya released the breath that she had not realized she was holding in as the large man shrugged, turning and heading back towards his seat chuckling. She struggled to control her fury as she returned to the child, still remaining between her and Victor.

“Hello child. Are you hungry?” she asked Lucia gently.

The child peered cautiously over towards her father before nodding her head slowly to the priestess. Anya extended her hand to the frightened girl, helping her to her bare feet before escorting her to a small table near the back of the tavern. She felt most of the eyes in the tavern on her as she sat the child facing away from the main room tavern.

After scanning the tavern quickly and saw that the old barkeep was coming toward her. He nodded his balding head courteously as he approached, rubbing his hands on his stained apron.

“M’lady. My name is Nathaniel. I welcome you to the Singing Sparrow,” he said in a deep, but sincere voice.

“I appreciate your hospitality Master Nathaniel. There are some in Port Kellen who talk very highly of your stew,” she said warmly as she fished some money out of her pouch.

He looked around warily. He spoke in a low voice, “Did Mistress Miriam send you?” She could tell that he was nervous and was hoping to help the child without the child’s father discovering.

“Indeed she did. I came right away,” she replied softly.

A large smile crept across his old face. “Praise the Mothers! We have some lamb stew in the back. Just made it m’self,” speaking a little louder. He walked back toward the bar and disappeared into a doorway. When he reappeared he was carrying a tray that held two bowls of steaming hot stew and two mugs. He set a bowl and mug in front of the girl before setting the ones for Anya in front of her.

Nathaniel whispered again, “I brought ‘lil Luci here some milk and our best wine for you m’lady. And put those coins away. Any frien’ of this girl is a frien’ of mine.” He started walking away and turned suddenly as if he had forgotten something.

“Will m’lady need lodging for the evening?”

“Yes Master Nathaniel!”

“I will have the missus prepare the first room on the right up the stairs.” He replied before heading back to the bar.

Anya focused her attention back on Lucia. Her eyes stared at the bowl in front of her, but she had not touched it. I wonder what is holding her back, the priestess thought to herself.

“You may eat if you are hungry, but be careful because the stew is hot” the priestess told her soothingly.

The child’s hand flew at the spoon and she began shoveling the hot brown morsels of meat and potato into her mouth. She only paused briefly to take a drink out of the large mug, sloshing some of its contents onto the wooden table.

While Lucia was eating Anya scanned the room. Victor returned to his chair, playing a dice game with four other equally intoxicated fellows. He dropped the dice and made one of the tavern wenches bend down to pick them up. While she was bent over he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her into his lap. The whole scene was so disgusting that she had to turn her head away thinking back to some of the lessons she had learned in the temple. It was Lucia’s voice that brought her back to reality.

“Thank you,” whispered Lucia when she had emptied her bowl.

“Would you like some more stew or maybe some bread?”

The girl shook her head vigorously at first and then stopped to look around, afraid that she may be in some sort of trouble.

Anya smiled warmly at her before picking up her bowl. She walked over and set the empty bowl onto the bar. Nathaniel fished another bowl of stew and some bread out of the kitchen and brought it to the priestess. She returned back to the table in the corner, setting both the bowl of stew and the bread down in front of the child. Lucia did not wait to get permission this time before breaking off a piece of the bread and quickly consuming her second bowl of stew. The priestess smiled and sat back to enjoy her wine and stew as well.

Once they both had finished, Anya introduced herself to the child. “My name is Anya Silverwillow. I am a priestess of Kala,” she said, pointing to herself.

“Lucia,” the girl replied weakly. She was unsure of herself and from the way she looked around her when she spoke, it did not seem like she had an opportunity to speak much at all. Anya remembered when she was young she would follow her mother all around the garden talking. The memory caught her by surprise because she did not remember hardly anything about her life before she was found outside the Kalatian temple at age fifteen. Once she had Lucia safe she would have to think back on this memory and see if she could remember anything else from her past.

Just as Anya was going to begin asking little Lucia some questions, she noticed that the young one’s father was approaching unsteadily.

“Don’t be fillin’ her head with none of yer love ‘n harmony nonsense,” he said loudly. He was unsteady on his feet and his words were more slurred than before. As he came closer he reached out for the wall to steady himself, almost falling over in the process.

Anya looked over at Lucia, who had shrunk back into her chair with a look of complete terror on her face. She rose immediately from her chair, placing her body between father and daughter once again. Nathaniel must have sensed there would be trouble and went over to the girls father to help him. The intoxicated man waved his arm towards the barkeep to shoo him off. The older man stepped back out of the way, but did not leave.

“Ye had better leave Victor,” the barkeep said to the staggering man, who in turn ignored him.

With his attention returning to Anya, Victor exclaimed, “By Barak’s balls! What do you think you are doin’ wif my daughter woman?”

As she straightened her back, Anya replied in an icy tone, “I am checking on the welfare of this child. Lucia is filty, starved and has bruises like she has been beaten.”

“The little whelp has ruined my life. If you want her, take her. She has been nothing but rotten and worthless since she was born.”

Victor turned on his heel and staggered back towards his seat.

Anya turned to Lucia, who was shrinking back in her chair in terror.

“Would you like to come live with me and the other priestesses at the temple? You will have a nice bed to sleep in, can eat whenever you want and there are several other children to play with.”

Lucia’s eyes lit up and swirled with the possibilities. She vigorously nodded her head and sat up straight in her chair. Her entire demeanor had changed in the blink of an eye. She no longer looked around for her father, but looked directly at the priestess as she spoke.

The child was still covered in dirt, but with her stomach full and her eagerness to leave the tavern, Anya decided that they should probably leave. Once they arrived at the temple she could help Lucia get washed up and take care of any other injuries she might have. From the look of the bruises on her thin body, Anya decided that there were probably many emotional wounds that they would need to address as well.

With some relief in her voice, Anya turned to Nathaniel. “I would like to return to Port Kellen with the child immediately. Is there someone who can take us?”

The old barkeep nodded before heading to one of the tables near the door. He briefly spoke to a man there and gestured toward the priestess and the child a few times. The man got up from the table and left the tavern. Nathaniel walked back to the table where Anya and Lucia sat.

“Henry will take you where you need to go. You can meet him outside.”

Anya usually did not like to travel by horse, but she wanted to get Lucia back to the temple before Victor changed his mind or tried to harm either of them physically. As she and the child rose from their chairs and walked towards the door, Anya noticed that Victor did not look up or acknowledge that his own daughter was leaving his life, probably forever. It saddened her to think what Lucia had gone through here, but made her even more determined to get her to the temple safely.

Nathaniel followed them out and handed her a bundle that contained another loaf of bread and some cheese for them to eat on the trip. She thanked him for the food and his kindness briefly as Lucia gave him a big hug. The child had tears in her eyes and they smeared the smudges of dirt on her face. Once she was done hugging her first and only friend, Anya took Lucia’s hand into her own and knelt down next to her. She used the lining of her cloak to wipe the tears and some of the dirt from the girl’s face. She smiled warmly and was surprised, but relieved when it was returned.

Outside the tavern Anya could breather much easier. As she watched as the barkeep disappeared back into the tavern she spotted the silhouette of a horse-drawn wagon pulling around the corner. When it was in front of them she could see the man Nathaniel had spoken to in the tavern, Henry, in front with his wife and young boy in the back. The woman, Sarah, helped them into the back of the wagon and gave them each a blanket to keep them warm during the trip. She sat down opposite Sarah in the wagon and positioned Lucia by her side.

The night air was chilly and the path was well lit by the pair of moons. Once they were in the forest Anya felt Lucia relax and looked to see that the girl had fallen asleep against her. Looking over at Sarah she found that both Henry’s wife and son were both already asleep. She pulled her own blanket around so it also helped cover the small body next to her. She watched the trees pass overhead for some time before drifting off to sleep herself.

Travelling by wagon to Port Kellen was significantly quicker than on foot. Henry drove through the night to get the women safely to the temple. Just as dawn began to peek over the trees he relinquished the reins to his son and Sarah so he could rest in the rear of the wagon. Anya and Lucia shared some of the bread and cheese with their travel companions as they looked at the forest. Anya pointed out the different birds and wildlife to Lucia as they passed. Lucia had relaxed quite a bit, but would tense up any time the wagon would stop.

Just before noon they reached the outskirts of of Port Kellen. They passed many houses and wells before reaching the temple, which was just northeast of the town. With their home right along the ocean, swimming and fishing were some of the important skills that were taught. Anya told Lucia tales of her encounters with mermaids and even told her of a treasure that was said to be buried off one of the northern coves. The child watched and listened to the priestess with much interest.

Several of the priestesses and acolytes ran from the temple to greet the wagon when it arrived. Lucia was stiff with fear being surrounded by so many people, but Anya took her hand and squeezed it gently.

The high priestess of the temple was the first one to speak. To Lucia with a wink she said, “By the love of the great Mothers, we are so glad to have you here.”

The frightened Lucia clung to Anya’s arm and hid her eyes against her dress.

Anya smiled warmly at the high priestess. “May the love of the Mother Kala precede me. My Lady, we should get this little one cleaned up and attend to our guests. I have much to speak with you about in private, but my dear friend here needs my attention first.”

The high priestess bowed deeply to show her appreciation and affection to Anya before stepping out of the way for them to pass. One of the other priestesses helped Anya down from the wagon, who in turn helped the young traveler. She held Lucia’s hand and walked her over into the temple. Lucia looked around in amazement at the marble statues and gold columns within having never seen such beauty. They went through a doorway and entered a small passage. After passing several doors she turned to the right and opened a door, urging Lucia to step inside. They were in Anya’s room.

“You can stay in here with me for a couple days Lucia, but soon you will go stay with the other girls your age,” she told the young girl.

Lucia looked terrified and would not let go of her hand. She could see tears were forming in the little brown eyes.

“It will be fine Luci dear and you will like the other little girls that live here. Let’s go get you washed up, find you a pretty dress and get you something to eat,” she said, smiling.

Anya chuckled as the child perked up at the mention of food. She felt the warmth of joy spread through her being as Lucia clung to her arm and wished that it could always be this way. Unfortunately Lucia would have to leave her care soon and join the other children of the temple. The child would be so busy with lessons and playing that she feared she would not get to see her as often as she liked. Brushing those sad thoughts aside, she decided to enjoy the young one while she was around.

As she opened the door back into the passage a little blur ran by. Serephina Andel, one of the other children living in the temple stopped at the corner to look back at them and waved. Serephina’s bright red hair was a huge contrast to her light blue tinted skin. Lucia waved back before the girl took off at a run around the corner before hiding her face back in the priestess’ dress.