The Journey of Two Witches: Part 2

Part 2

Emily marched through downtown Dublin, her light blue cloak flapping in the midnight wind, darkened rain dotting her face. She was not usually one for night time strolls but she couldn’t sleep. She wasn’t alone either. Out on the streets were the other late dwellers, all of whom saw the seventeen year old girl and yet not a single one said a word. Who were they to judge? They too kept the moon company. 

The weather, although being slightly rough, as is often the case in Ireland during the winter, did nothing for Emily’s thoughts. She was worried. Worried about Mother Meredith, about the future of her coven, and about the usual things that plagued the mind of a witch, especially one as old as she. 

Turning a corner and nodding to a woman on the other side of the road not too much older than herself, she arrived back at the hotel, that which was called ‘The Warrior’s Belt’. 

Stepping inside and stomping off the water of the hour long jaunt, Emily approached the empty front desk. With a deft, experienced hand, she reached over the top and took hold of a lever protruding from the wood below. Pulling it to the left, there was a click from the wall beyond, which held all the room keys. Looking around to see if anyone was watching, Emily pushed open the swinging door against the leftmost wall beside the start of the stairs leading up to all the rooms above. Putting her hand underneath the key board, she pushed the wall aside to reveal a neat, sizable closet with a trap door ingrained into the carpeted floor. Having closed the hidden door behind her, Emily took hold of the trap door handle and pushed it up and out of the way. Ensuring she had stable footing on the stairs below, she pulled the trap door down as well. Had anyone walked into The Warrior’s Belt, they could have never even been able to tell she had been there at all. 

Meredith coughed endlessly into the night. When she was done, her breath was ragged and her heart raced like a horse. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, she knew that she would probably not see dawn. Sitting up in her bed, despite the immense pain that attacked all of her joints, she closed her eyes and asked for guidance.  For nearly seventy five years, she had led her coven. She had seen them through hell and back, and back again. She used to be so tired. Tired of everything. Yet, now as she lay upon her last night’s dreams, a hundred and two years suddenly seemed as if it were not even close to enough. 

Squeezing her hands together, she raised them to the sky beyond the ceiling. In that instant, her mind was overcome with a vision.

A young woman. No, there were two, two girls standing as if they were one. They moved their hands in perplexing ways, as if they were communicating without words. One approached her and held out her hand. The other girl, the shorter one, whispered in a broken voice to her companion. “Clarissa, are you sure you can?”

The hand contracted but still remained. “Who else will?”

Suddenly, like lightning, the vision changed. Upon the ground, her body covered in both blood and mud, was the other girl, her arms wrapped around the body of the one named Clarissa, her throat slit and pouring forth a fountain of life. The other looked up and, with tears in her eyes, screamed loud enough to shatter worlds.

With this sound, Meredith was jolted into reality. It was only then that she saw Emily in the doorway, her eyes wide. Without wasting a moment, she threw off her hood and took a seat at the edge of the bed. “Are you alright, Mother? You had a vision. What was it?”

Meredith put her hand on her advisor’s arm and offered up a sly smirk. Before she could speak, she fell into another coughing fit. Seeing this, Emily ran to Meredith’s flask on her desk. She offered it to the Mother but she shook her head. Between coughs, she was able to get out her words. “That thing’s… full o’ whiskey. Get my… Get my other one.”

Doing as she was instructed, Emily returned with the leather bag full of what smelled to be water. Once Meredith was able to recover, she lay back into the bed and gestured for Emily to come closer. “My vision, you ask? Hehe, you're quite the curious one. I always liked that about you. Older than me and always willing to learn something. Well, here it is. There's a witch. Her name is Clarissa. She is English. You are to go to England. Make sure she makes it here safely. She is the future.”

 Emily looked down, perplexed. “The future of what?”

Meredith turned away and coughed. “The future of our coven. Emily, I need you to promise me something, ok?”

Emily nodded and leaned closer so that the Mother need not strain herself. 

“Promise me… Promise me that you won’t let yourself stand still. Move forward. Always. Get the girl, she will do right by us, by you. Just… don’t stand still, ok? Grow not moss where you should be rolling.”

Emily nodded and took Meredith’s hand. “I promise.”

She couldn’t exactly tell the moment that Meredith passed, it was so subtle, so silent. One moment, she was smiling at the witch at her side, and the next moment, her breath just stopped coming. Emily, despite being her closest friend, couldn’t find it in herself to cry. Instead, she simply laid Meredith’s hand onto her chest and stood off the bed. Moving to the desk, she took a deep drink from the other flask, the golden liquor burning her throat. This slight hurt was the closest she could have gotten to feeling anything. It was only then that a single tear dropped. 

“I promise.”

Ducking into the red tent, Javel rose to his full height before the council of elders. The head of the table, K, a small man lacking hair aside from a large mustache, gestured for him to be seated in a stone seat across from the men. “You are late, Death Speaker.”

Javel pinched himself. He hated when they called him by that, a title that was chosen for him by Mol himself. He shook his head. “Nay, I have arriven precisely when intended. I presume you know of the plan?”

K nodded. “We have been made aware. You compared it to… hunting deer? Yes, I believe that was it. How do you propose to achieve it?”

Javel leaned back and crossed his long legs. “My idea, in the form it is now, is to send your Master Assassins to London. From there, they would spread out and hunt them down. No idling, simply an assault on our greatest enemy.” 

M, the youngest of the Elders of Apotheosis, stood and hit his hand on the arm of his chair. “It’s outrageous. The witches are by far the most powerful of our adversaries and you are suggesting a full frontal assault? Preposterous, even for a young man such as yourself…”

Javel too arose, not unlike a ballet dancer pirouetting in front of an audience, his voice as calm as usual but with the slightest hint of venom behind his words. “Be not hasty, M. These witches are not the ones which you lost to so long ago. They are new bloods, weak. Most know how to cast nary a flame. If anything, your assassins should be bored. Also, would you care to repeat the last part of your statement? I would love to hear it once more.”

He put his hand to his long ear and leaned toward the elder who promptly sat down. Javel chuckled to himself and relaxed back into his seat. “That is what I thought. I have lived hundreds of your life times, young man, you best not forget that again. Now, what say you, Elder K?”

The old man sighed at his younger contemporary’s foolishness. “Should what you say be true, then it will be most advantageous indeed. To nip the serotinous seeds before they have a chance to grow once more would be the largest victory of our age in the name of Mol. We shall hold a vote. Those in favor, stand. If not, then remain seated.”

K was the first to rise. Slowly, one by one, the other six elders, even M, joined him. He motioned for them to take their seats. “So, it is settled then.”

He clapped twice and a large man clad in comfortable robes and a customary chain around his neck, gold to denote his status as general, stepped through the tent flap. “Yes, my elder?”

K grinned. “My son, Diaemus, come hither.”

Doing as he was told, Diaemus knelt before the council. 

“You are being charged with a test of allegiance to Mol and to this council. Gather your Master Assassins and go to London. You need not take the Lesser Knives, they are not ready for this yet. From London, you will track down the young witches. They should give you no trouble. Take the hounds. Do you understand me?”

 Diaemus nodded. “Yes, my elder.”

“Then begone. Return when your task is complete.”

The younger man stood once more, bowed, and removed himself from the tent. K, having moved his eyes back to the chair at the front of the tent, was met by an empty chair. He shook his head. The Death Speaker was always one for dramatic exits. Stands to reason he should vanish as he had appeared. Truly, the man was a mystery. He had been there since K was a young man and now, as he reached an advanced and accomplished age, the man hadn’t even changed. Perhaps his hair grew longer. There is no human that is immune to change. Surely Javel is the same way. That is, if he was even human, which K had his doubts. 

Luminous dawn shattered on the roaring waves of the Irish Sea, and nearly fifty black wood ships prepared themselves to embark into the thunderous brine. 

Robust boots clattered onto the deck of the leading ship, that which had been christened as the ‘Rinn Phantasm’. His stride denoting with every step how many inches which his ego stretched, Diaemus smirked in the new day’s sun. Laying his hand on the shoulder of the first mate, his eyes stretched over the bustling deck. While some men were at work steadying the ropes, others were fighting tooth and nail to confine several immense hounds within the cages on the freshly swept wood.

He patted the man twice and looked at the map in his hands. “Tis a wonderful morn, is it not?”

“Aye, sir, wonderful… glorious, even. Shall we take her ‘round old Plymouth? Weather seems eager and the wind is wrestling at our reigns even now.”

Diaemus nodded, pleased in Coleura’s work. “Indeed, good man. Let us waste no more time here. The Isle of Man is bidding us a well fairing and England beckons with open arms. Make haste, southward. Prepare the oarsmen. Today is the beginning of history.”

Enthusiastic for his chance at eternal remembrance within the arms of Mol, Coleura rushed below deck and, in a shockingly large voice, prodded on the slaves to hook their oars and to heave, with all of their might, off the dock. 

Diaemus felt the ship shift beneath his feet as the newly painted hull grinded off the shore and into the open sea. To the beat of his heart, the other ships of his fleet did the same. Deep in his bones, he knew he was going to enjoy this far more than anything in his career. Most of what he had done was training with occasional combat. This was real. This was his and he intended to seize the opportunity to prove himself worthy of his post with both hands and squeeze the last ichor of life from its flesh. Yes, this is exactly his plan. It will, in fact, be glorious.