by Marshia Whitman

Created on: October 29, 2008   Last Updated: September 21, 2011

"White Witch"

She stood, arms raised on either side of her to shoulder height. Her deep purple robes were alive in the winds and the cool summer rains helped bury her roots deep in the wet earth beneath her. Her middle-age face turned up to the sky as she called to whichever Gods chose to listen to her this night. The falling waters refreshed. They quenched an old thirst born of many lifetimes of willing servitude to nature.

Sweet power from the continuous thunder and lightening rolled through her. She could feel her energy rising and knew it was time to begin in earnest. Looking down and to her right she saw the bowl of difficult-to-find herbs that she had prepared just before setting her alter here on this knoll. To her left were the ritual candles she had made. They were made from an old recipe of physical ingredients and very old magick to help them burn when wet. It was a recipe passed through her family for 76 generations and had never failed. A foot or two in front of her was her dagger, another gift from generations past. A simple thing yet it held profound meaning. The hilt was carved in the feminine form with arms crossing gently in front. Legs, in the same position as the arms, led to the blade fashioned from metal folded 1000 times so long ago. At her feet, surrounded by all her tools, was the figure of a nearly dead boy. He lied, unmoving, in the grass exposed as she was to the Elements. His skin was pale and smooth and, in the dark, looked perfect.

She picked up the dagger, offered it to the storm, and chanted. The words wove a tail of dedication, of sacrifice, and called to the Ancient Ones to assist their servant. Continuing the old words, she knelt and moved the wooden bowl to her knees. Rain had soaked her to the bone but no part of her conscious mind acknowledged it. Winds attempted to pull her robes from her but that too was left unnoticed.

Out of the corner of her pale eyes, however, she saw the flicker of torches. She had expected them. She knew they would find out what she had done and hunt her down to rip out her beating heart. She continued on with her spell-weaving. She had to complete the ritual before the townspeople arrived or it would all be for naught.

White Witch they called her and in this land there was no measure of respect in the title. On the contrary, it was seen as evil, an abomination on the earth to be eradicated. She had remained hidden for 3 long years and knew that, by doing this, she risked being caught by them once

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