Chapter 20 - Sorceress
Camp of Halko, Wilds of Eagle Owl. SE Britain
Another crisp winter’s morning greets as we crawl out of the elders’ smoky shelter. Immediately Su’lan rushes off to join in pre-hunt rituals with the famous sorceress. Frosty air bites at my throat still sore from last night’s smoke. I hobble on blistered feet and pull my warm furs tight to my chest joining the Mothers of Halko at their hearth.
These kind women give me a wooden cup of hot herbal tea to close numbed fingers around. In return I tell them of my plight and travels. They inform me I’m fortunate to have the support of the Storyteller. One pair of young mothers insinuate Su’lan has grieved for far too long, and giggle as they cast a scandalous eye! Thankfully I’m rescued from these gossip makers by a girl fetching me to the lodge of the sorceress, forthwith she has dispatched the hunters with blessings.
Thin smoke rises from the vent of a substantial shelter. The deep skull of a large bear flanked either side by the claws of the same ursid monster, are mounted in the roofline of this witch’s den. A pine lintel above the low doorway has been deeply scratched by the zig zag marks of her magic. I stoop down to enter her abode and find its interior smoky. It's poorly illuminated by the flames of a central fireplace. Several badger pelts and the fur of the bear carpet the floor to provide comfort. Striped faces of badgers have been neatly trimmed to stare at visitors with accusation. Small bowls fashioned from children’s skulls are placed among these pelts. These clay lined, ivory craniums, are stained by the powders which they hold. At the back of the den hangs a ceremonial cape of eagle owl feathers. Safely stowed away along the sides of the den are many more herbs, roots, stuffed sections of dried gut, skulls and baculum.
The ancient crone squats naked by her hearth. Her old body is encrusted with clay and chalk. Zig zags have been sketched into the filth that coats even her withered breasts. These fingered patterns expose a dark and leathery old skin beneath. Deeply engraved wrinkles stretch and crack across her face. Her grey hair is all matted and uncombed, but decorated with the feathers and skulls of small birds. Though it's evident this sorceress is of great age, her eyes are dark and shiny. They suggest her former beauty as a stunning witch of the Eagle Owl.
I choke as more smoke tickles at my damaged throat, prompting a bony hand to extend towards me with an offering of a potion. I don’t recognise its aroma but fear offending this powerful sorceress and accept my medicine. It tastes bitter and I cannot help but screw up my face, which causes the sorceress to chortle. Soon I find my throat is soothed and my voice properly restored. With a chattering nerve I forward my formal self introduction, sparing no detail of my extensive matrilineage. Finally my long introduction complete, this witch leans forward, puts her own wrinkled hands around mine, and in a dialect I can comprehend, requests,
‘Just call me Zawalla’. Though gravelly, her voice is friendly. I feel embarrassed by my long self introduction. Zawalla wastes no time and asks me to remove my boots. As I do so, I tell her,
‘I wish to resume my trek to the Serpentine waters without further delay’.
She first frowns at this statement before giving a pitiful expression. I think she knows I'll be frustrated in my ambition. But she washes my feet in her lotions before rubbing in a magical poultice. With her healing done, Zawalla speaks freely,
‘Tashkilla it might not be these blisters that delay your adventure. Spend a little time with Zawalla while your poor toes heal. Share with an old lady, a brew of my tea, and let the boys hunt while we chatter’.
She seems so nice, and the tea I accept. It tastes strange but I relax more deeply. The sorceress places some dry root into her fire. At first it crackles and spits before settling to release a pungent aroma.
Zawalla tells me, ‘You’re not here in my lodge solely for my pedicure. Other powers have guided you to me’.
The sorceress crouches over the smoky fire, inhales, then begins to chant in the witches’ secret tongue. I know it's dangerous to disturb a consultation with spirits. I feel weakened by her tea or by the smoke of that root. I lay back, making myself comfortable on her pelts and wait. Only when she’s ready to speak directly does Zawalla lift back up her head from the smoke. Her eyes are darker. They stare into my spirit as she requests,
‘Envisage the source of all consciousness exists at the centre of the cosmos where there is a balanced conflict between two equals locked together in dance. They duel but neither can escape the bond of the other as they are equally attracted and repelled. Together these two bodies spin in an age-old dance’.
Zawalla’s powerful eyes penetrate the smoke,
‘Some folk portray this dance as a battle between the forces of good and bad, while others suggest it to be between forces of creation and destruction. Some ancient cults revere these two dancers as the spirit of Moon, and the spirit of Bull’. The witch leans forward and asks, ‘Tashkilla, the Bull speaks directly to you, does he not?’
Despite my intoxication, my senses are rocked by this sudden insight. A chill passes through my body but I manage to nod.
Zawalla sees this and grins, ‘Don’t fret to elaborate Bull daughter. I sense his presence all over you. I know you've gazed into his eyes. They’re so dark, so large and black. Orbs around which space swirls and time freezes. Tell me, what do you think that you've so far glimpsed within those dark orbs of Bull?’.
Images from my first visions flash back across my mind’s eye. Reluctantly I feel words fall onto my tongue. This witch has me spellbound,
‘I saw some monstrous cat as it sought to eat a strange maiden with long dark hair and hazel eyes. Ur’salla was there with her, as though they were one. It was the spirit of Ur’salla who slayed the cat’.
Zawalla nods and interprets my vision, ‘This Ur’salla whom you seek to rescue. You should know that while you Tashkilla are a daughter of the Bull, she’s a daughter of the Moon. This is why your bond, although sometimes fractious, is unbreakable’.
I think about this and it makes sense. The sorceress has more to tell me about this vision,
‘Ur’salla isn't alone during her trial of abduction, because she shares a spiritual womb with a sister of the Moon. She was the strange hazel-eyed girl that you saw Ur’salla defend’.
I tell her what else I saw in the vision from the Feast of the Fat Pig, ‘I saw a man crumpled in tall grass, he'd been destroyed by the Bull’.
Zawalla shuffles, eager to help me better see what I am missing from my visions,
‘Visualise once more into that memory. This man who lies defeated by the Bull. Are you still sure you don't recognise him? Look once more’.
I shut my eyelids and focus with intensity, replaying the images in my mind. This time I see more clearly his pained features as he stares back directly into the eye of Bull. I see he doesn’t breathe. He’s on the periphery between life and death. Then…
‘I know who he is, I see him! Oh no, please no, it's Su’lan who is defeated by Bull. It is my travel companion, the Storyteller. Has he today gone to meet his death?’
With this question, I open my eyes to report deep dismay.
She tries to calm my fears, ‘Daughter of the Bull, I promise that today Su’lan of the Arpon will return to us with his heart still beating. He’ll bring with him further guidance from the spirit who guides you’.
This gives me comfort, and I calm down. Zawalla sits up. She appears tired as she ends our conference,
‘My dear, Zawalla has revealed enough. Be sure that Bull is your guide on your mission to find your friend. I’m tired and need to rest as will your poor feet. Su’lan will deliver your next message. You should return to the mothers at the cooking hearth. As they waste idle gossip, tell them Zawalla’s pedicure is great’.
I see a grin crack her features. I'll attempt to remain calm for the day. She’s promised Su’lan will return from his hunt. This mighty midwife of the Eagle Owl is indeed worthy of her fame. I crawl out of her witch’s den to chilly air. My ears soon pick up on the cries of men, returning from the bull hunt.