Leather and Sage (Willow Moss and Kindling Book 1) Read online

  Copyright © 2021 by Taylor Shepeard

  Cursed Dragon Ship Publishing, LLC

  6046 FM 2920 Rd W, #231, Spring, TX 77379

  [email protected]

  Cover © 2021 by Stefanie Saw

  Developmental Edit by Kelly Lynn Colby

  Copy Edit by S. G. George

  ISBN 978-1-951445-14-0

  ISBN 978-1-951445-13-3 (ebook)

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This books is a work of fiction fresh from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons or places is mere coincidence.

  Grandma,

  Thank you for always believing in me. This first tale, and all the ones to follow, is for you.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Titles by Cursed Dragon Ship

  Other Titles by Cursed Dragon Ship

  Prologue

  (Rooted Deep, this Forsaken)

  Howls fill the woods. They wrap ’round trunks of birch to curdle the disposition of the Inner Circle and the Matron. I watch them figures, hunched together as the wails heighten. I just want them screams to stop—those of my mother.

  A fire burns ’tween the huddled witches, and over it sits a burnished, black cauldron. The flames flicker and flare, then paint the Inner Circle’s faces with oranges and yellows and blacks like they a field of sunflowers trapped under a bog.

  ’Nother shriek sounds, and I twist blue-dyed fingers into fists that quake. Beatrice, a witch and Elder of my clan, the Orchard, fits her hand over my shoulder, gripping tight. It’s too soon. The spirits have found they way into Mother’s mind, and once they in, there ain’t nothing to be done. I swallow, my throat a wasteland, and wait for the Matron to reach a decision. Are we to give my mother to the spirits as an offering, or do we put her to rest with a knife at her throat?

  Beatrice’s hand near my nape don’t leave, its bony strength covered in a thin lining of skin and blue veins. She watches the figures, her eyes black ’gainst the night that shrouds us. When the others remain together, she leans to murmur in my ear. “Did you collect the ingredients during a full moon?”

  I nod, not trusting my lips to move without cries escaping. A full moon’s best, though an absent moon is still a strong celestial time to start the poultice. She pinches her whitened lips together.

  “And the Last Lamentation … you chanted it?”

  A nod.

  “How many times?”

  Ice churns in my chest as I choke out a response. “Just the one. Recipe don’t say more than one.”

  Beatrice gives a curt tilt of her chin. Her eyes close, and the lids twitch where the bulbs slide and work ’neath them. “It’s too soon. The spirits, they ain’t taking as long as they used to, weaseling they way in to root down in our minds. Your mother only has two girls. Won’t be long ’fore the birth of a daughter don’t mean nothing. They’ll get in ’fore the gift is shared.”

  I shudder as the sacrament of her words slices down my spine. We were once the most powerful creatures of all, with hands made to weave life from nothing, eyes to see beyond sight, and ears to hear the unspoken. We are the Coven. It’s just a mantra now.

  Words with no power. Titles with no potency.

  Another howl, deep and disturbed, drifts through the forest. My breaths stutter. Not even our poultices work to block the spirits that hunger after us from the Beyond.

  The pressure from Beatrice’s hand lifts. She moves aside, head bent down to search the ground ’tween her feet, and I know the Blackwoods come. They hushed voices that were masked by the crackling fire lie silent as they approach. I don’t make move to watch.

  “Miriam Hallivard,” The Matron calls out, voice dry like the warning of a rattlesnake, “Daughter of Gretchen Hallivard, who is the Matriarch of the Orchard Clan, we have decided.”

  They want me to look to them, but there ain’t no way I can. They gaze be nothing but a sentencing ’cause, whatever they say, my mother dies tonight. I should know which I want—a quick death or a sacrifice—but I cain’t think on it. Shifting my eyes from Beatrice’s feet, I tilt my face up to the Matron.

  Her eyes are of willow moss and kindling—just like mine and all the women of every clan—deep set in a face with shrunken skin and pointed bones. She seems a spirit herself, but she ain’t. We’re witches, all of us here, though the Blackwoods be the first of our kind. It makes them stronger, the magic drawn to them more than it is to any of us other clans that form the Coven.

  A knife glints in the Matron’s hand. It looks warped, the way the fire reflects off it so. They’ve chosen a quick death for Mother. My chest leaps, but I don’t know if it’s good or bad.

  Everyone waits, watching, and I think on the words I’m s’posed to say. My throat’s still dry, a plow field in the winter. I swallow. Once. Twice. Then, I speak.

  “Matron, Blood and Kin, how will my mother, Gr—” I cut off, tears clenching my throat, then inhale deep. Beatrice’s hand don’t return for comfort, harsh a support as it was. The Matron’s here. “—Gretchen Hallivard, Matriarch of the Orchard Clan, serve?”

  The Matron pulls her hood back to reveal wiry, silver hair, like spiderwebs drifting back. Her gaze be a bright beam, like gator eyes caught in the moonlight. I clutch my hands together and shift, not liking the way she watches me. My willow moss and kindling flashes to the three ’round her, then to the two that still stand near the cauldron: the Inner Circle, who place highest in ranks among the Blackwoods and support the Matron in all she chooses. We only see them when something big has happened, and I don’t want them ’round no longer.

  If only Mother would come back, none of this would need be.

  At last, the Matron answers. “Gretchen Hallivard, Matriarch of the Orchard Clan, will serve by giving the Coven protection against the spirits from this night forward.”

  The words settle in the night and tap at my skull. My lips flit down as my nose wrinkles. Tears still glisten on my cheeks even if they ain’t running no more. A Blackwoods steps forward to hand over a piece of parchment.

  It’s a Creation recipe. I skim the lines, taking in the ingredients, while Beatrice stands behind me to do the same, her chin just high ’nough to reach over my shoulder.

  A flower? My teeth dig harsh lines into the flesh of my cheeks. “This … it’ll work? What’re we gon’ do with a flower?”

  The Matron don’t answer at first, staring at the parchment, then she removes it from my grip and slides it from sight.

  “It will be planted around our homes as a protective shield. The spirits cannot cross over a barrier made of this particular bloom, as that is how we will create it. Your mother’s blood, imbued with the gift and tainted with the spirits, will be the binding agent for all t
he ingredients. You, of course, will give blood as well, since you are her first-born daughter.”

  It’s all too much. Mother’s screams light the night ’gain, followed by the chime of hysterical laughter. This is it. Soon ’nough, she’ll be gone regardless, her body a vessel to whatever spirit got her mind in its grasp. I nod then push the Matron and her Inner Circle ’way with a wave of my hand. I wave and wave and wave, wanting them gone from me, wanting Mother back, wanting this night to be over with and never come ’gain. They retreat as Beatrice kneels beside me.

  Her hands clutch my wrist, and she hisses in my ear. “Did you see the poultice? Those ingredients … they don’t seem like ones that gon’ protect, Miriam.”

  My mind beats at my skull like it’s iron that needs tempering.

  “I ain’t never created a poultice that wasn’t already written down. How is we to know what should and shouldn’t go into a new one?”

  Beatrice chews her lip. Her grip tightens. “Still, I don’t like this. I think this be bad. They’ve dabbled in something dark, and we ’bout to be part of it. This feels like black magic even though I didn’t see a splinter of soul as an ingredient.”

  I try listening to Beatrice, but the screams and howls and wails and shrieks and wild, rough laughter of Mother rings in my head. The sounds toll ’gain and ’gain, a rooster come to force my mind awake. If only that were true and this was all a nightmare; I’d open bleary eyes to a day where Mother’s laughing in the kitchen while she strips poultice ingredients and bickers with Paw. But this ain’t. I shake Beatrice off my arm. “They the Coven.”

  “We the Coven, too,” she counters.

  “But they the main clan. They the blood of the first witches, the Blackwoods. We ain’t never learned how to craft stuff to new medicines or weave life or create. We just got the gift and the way it lets us see things that ain’t there, hear things that don’t make sound, and feel gooseprickles of warning. Madness from the spirits is a big price to pay for it. They can take that price ’way.”

  Her hand hovers near my wrist, a slated glint in her eyes. For a moment, I think she might grab me and run. Then, her palm lowers, and she casts her gaze to the Matron.

  “Bloodbud,” she says, the word a curse. “Ain’t no good gon’ come of a flower named Bloodbud, you mark my words, Miriam Hallivard.”

  “All we do is dealt in blood, Beatrice. Mother’s medicine to ward from the spirits took mine, and I’ll need my daughter’s once I got one. There are worse names. Deceitful names. Wintersweet can kill, but it sounds all happy and innocent. Sweet, it says.”

  The Blackwoods start to chant. They graveled voices rise and fall in a harsh, guttural tune that hurts my ears to listen to. The Old Language. Beatrice’s face falls blank, so I ’ssume she don’t know the words, neither, despite being an Elder of the Orchard. As they speak, the Inner Circle adds ingredients to the cauldron nestled over the woodland fire. When they gathered, I don’t know. They must’ve hoped I’d agree to this and prepared.

  A powder gets poured in, either the dirt of a dead man’s grave or the crushed bat skull. Next, they hold a rattler over the poultice. It wriggles in anger ’fore a knife plunges into the soft of its belly and rips through. Blood and entrails fall out. The serpent’s body gets discarded to the side, and the Blackwoods keep pouring ingredients: meadowsweet, claw of salamander, sage, web of a journey to the Beyond.

  Beatrice paces beside me, a cat with its back arched at some unseen noise in the dark. I wonder if she gon’ hiss, too, her tongue tucked behind front teeth. It don’t matter. I close my eyes, the lids bright red and flashing blues. They stay closed ’til I hear her. Mother. The colors disappear as the forest snaps back to sight.

  Oh, Mother.

  She steps closer so the fire no longer blacks her from sight. Blood’s raked ’cross her face from the claw marks she’s left there. She’s almost gone, the last pieces of her sanity and her mind holding to what little portions of this world remain to block the insistent talons of the next life. The Beyond. She spots me ’cross the way, eyes crazed, the tint muddled and gray, no longer willow moss and kindling. I plunge my fist into my mouth to still my own wail. The Matron watches on as Mother’s forced to the cauldron.

  Beatrice and I step forward. Mother keeps her gaze on me and clicks her tongue. Her fingers twitch, and she chomps her teeth like she’s gnawing on cud. We’re too late to make the flower ’cause this ain’t Mother no more. The spirit that has her now cocks its head left then right, left then right, left then right, like a nervous habit. Together, voices aligned, the Inner Circle resumes they chants. The Old Language churns in the air and scrapes at my ears.

  Then, the Matron moves behind Mother, knife in hand. I meet Mother’s gaze. Wrong eyes—gray eyes—stare at me. All that can be heard is the low grumble of the incantations and the crackle of the fire. My heart beats a flurry of hummingbird wings.

  I hope she still hears the unspoken. I tell her she’s a good mother. I let her know how I love her and how I know she loves me.

  Tears blur my vision, but I brush them ’way before the Blackwoods see. When I look up, I’m met by eyes of willow moss and kindling. Mother’s eyes. They crinkle ’round the edges as she smiles, a soft curl of lips that hides her teeth and warms her cheeks. She heard me. I grin back and reach out as though to brush her hand, though she’s too far ’way to touch.

  Silver flashes, followed by crimson, and those eyes turn gray again. A roar wrenches out of her throat as she bears her canines. Beatrice slaps my hand back to my side, and I drop to the ground. My knees hit the earth with a crack. The Matron holds Mother’s honey wheat hair in her hand while two more of the Blackwoods keep grip on her limp arms to lean her bleeding neck over the cauldron. The flesh yawns wide as blood guzzles and spurts a steady stream into the poultice; they got they binding ingredient.

  The life leaves her, ’long with the spirit. My hands grapple at the dirt, fists clenched as I beat the ground and moan.

  She had heard; she had looked at me. She was there.

  The chants swell ’cross the clearing. I think my ears may bleed with the pain the Old Language causes them as it turns to a graveled pitch.

  “Miriam, it’s time for your blood.” The Matron summons me.

  She moves from behind Mother, knife still in hand, while two witches lift ’way the lifeless body. In front of me, the poultice boils and pops and grumbles. My teeth clench ’gainst the anguished cry I want to let out but cain’t. I drop the dirt in my fists. It’s done. Mother’s gone and this flower needs to come into creation so that no other witch will suffer our fate. My daughter won’t need a Requiem to slip a knife ’cross my throat.

  Beatrice moves to Mother, whose body is laid out on the ground some feet from the fire. Her veined hand reaches to close the dimmed eyes, and she pulls the sage forth from her robe. Once I give blood, I’ll join her in the burial rites.

  The Matron beckons me, and I avoid the fresh puddle of burgundy on the ground as I walk to her. She hands me the knife. It glimmers, unclean. I slice it ’cross my palm. There should be pain, but I’m too numb.

  “How much it need?” I ask as my blood drips into the kettle. The poultice bubbles up, green like swamp water and thick like syrup.

  “Until the buds can be seen.”

  The Matron don’t say more, so I rub my shoulder to keep the blood flowing. Beatrice mutters behind me, and I twist my neck to watch her light three candles ’round Mother’s head as the smoke from the sage hovers ’bove her body. Her throat’s been wrapped in ribbon to hide the wound.

  “Enough,” the Matron states.

  I jump back and pull in my wrist. The voices of the Inner Circle halt, and goose prickles raise on my arms at the sudden silence. Beatrice looks up from the rite, her hands wavering over Mother’s face, as the Inner Circle bounds forward. We watch the Matron, all of us. A fog hangs heavy ’round our gathering as we wait to see this flower that will protect the Coven. I back ’way to give the Blackwoods room
and kneel beside Beatrice as I grip Mother’s stiff hand in my nimble one.

  The Matron frowns into the kettle, her body rigid.

  “Forespoken,” she whispers, her sight on the contents I cain’t see. Those gator eyes flash and spark. “Forsaken.”

  “Matron,” one of the Inner Circle begins, “is it done?”

  She keeps quiet as we breathe ragged in the silent night. There’s no sound and no breeze, just a stifling heat that folds down my nape.

  “Pour out the poultice. It is done,” she says at last. Iron coats her tone.

  The Inner Circle moves to meet her command and dump the poultice onto the ground. It’s tar-like and bubbling as it leaks out at her feet.

  “And … the Bloodbud?” asks ’nother.

  The Matron’s face screws tight as she turns to us, then twists in rage as she sneers at Mother.

  “There,” she says and points.

  I look down to Mother’s hand clutched in my own, eyelids closed to hide the poisoned color. “Mother is the Bloodbud?”

  “No, you stupid child,” the Matron hisses. She reaches down to rip the cloth from Mother’s throat and exposes the fresh wound. I lunge at her and shove her back while the members of the Inner Circle grapple to yank me ’way.

  From the ground, Beatrice shrieks in distress. “You cain’t disturb the body during a rite! Her soul is searching for entrance from this vessel into the Beyond! So it is that the Blackwoods have lost respect for those clans at the borders.”

  The Matron ignores Beatrice. “Look.”

  Caught in a rage and still fighting ’gainst the hands that grip me tight, I turn to Mother.

  There, I see it.