The Banishing

Marcule Toise, red of hair and green of eye sat scanning the craggy horizon with a long lens. Angry and disappointed he put the lens down. He had missed his quarry. Rumors of the boy who screamed death and destruction had drawn him to the mountains. Now the boy had moved and learned to hide his emanations. Moved to the one place most hated and feared. Not that fear was something he acknowledged in himself. Arrogance was a double edged sword. The spell he had sent, bent all his will upon to harness the boy's power had moved oddly awry. More importantly it had been summarily dissipated. Toise shook his head gently and absently rubbed his temple. The repercussion of that dissipation had left him with an annoying twinge and his left eye occasionally twitched in sympathy. I will find him, I will learn that power. I will bend it to my purpose; he told himself and called for his servant.

"We leave as soon as practical in the morning." A nod of acquiescence greeted this demand. But, the servant’s eyes, downcast, flickered briefly with the distaste only an indentured servant can know. Toise moved with a dismissive sweep of his cloak toward his rooms.

* * *

Morek huddled comfortably by the fire guttering in the grate. She had dreamed again. She frequently did. Some held elements of truth. Morek sifted her dreams for truth. Some images held portents and the information astutely passed, or not, maintained her status of Witch and Healer in the village. Morek held no illusions about her abilities. Native wit, a good eye and ear and long memory augmented her powers. Last night had been different and had left her with a nameless unease. She had witnessed the flash of magic over the Wizards Isle. Awoken by she knew not what and drawn to look toward the Isle she saw both the incoming cast and its dissipation. Ordinarily she would have thought it an event of interest but of no import to her. However this event was different, especially because of the dream. Two things had come to the fore from this and demanded attention. First was the call, but although it was not for her it carried a message and something more that she could not fathom. The other was different. Something was coming. Like the moons waiting to rise, it was below her angle of sight but she could feel it. She felt it more strongly today than in the dream. It was coming and it was evil. This recognition sat her up in her chair and the little nagging nameless thought came to full flower. The caster was coming, that was a truth. More importantly to Morek, she saw it was seeking the lad.

Morek was younger than she looked. A mere detail in the persona she projected. Older women were not seen as a social threat and that aided both her acceptance and standing. Morek banked the fire, drew a voluminous cloak over her shoulders and headed for the pier. She had heard the call that accompanied the dissipation of the spell although it was not for her. Strange, she thought that it did not bother her. Morek knew of calls from lore she had read. Calls had import. Morek stopped short in the street. Color was important to Morek. Color shaded everything, even emotions she caught glimpses of in people held color. The street, the stones, the moss between them, the flowers and even the fading paint on the houses and fences vibrated anew: But it was the trees that held her. Morek thought she could almost see the life coursing through them. Gaia had made a call and she

was part of that. Standing unheeding in the street, tears streaking her cheeks she drank in this new world.

Old Jeffers watched Morek. He might have smiled but only those who knew him well might have noticed. She was an enigma to him. At odd moments the Witch appeared less of the matron and more the woman. He had the feeling he saw only what he was meant to see, a bit like the sea really. You had to look further and deeper to know its movements and mood. Appearances were deceptive. Both the sea and Morek were the same in that regard and today she was the woman in spite of that huge cloak; and still a Witch.

"Jeffers. How does this day find you?" Morek stopped in front of him but looked toward the sea.

"Finds me well enough, what brings you out on a day so bright?" Jeffers looked up at her from his seat on the sea wall where it was shaded by a huge ancient olive tree.

Briefly Morek wondered at Jeffers’s choice of words.

"When do you go next selling fish to the Isle?" She looked directly at him, wondering for an instant if he saw this new day as she did. Jeffers paused and looked to the direction of the Wizards Isle. The breeze came from the south and would perhaps move east a bit by the morning.

"Tomorrow, once every Seven Day or so." Jeffers looked to Morek as she sat on the sea wall next to him.

"What cost a passage?"

Jeffers paused again before replying. "You could send me an easting wind for the home drift." His eyes crinkled with a smile. Morek patted his arm.

"Not one of my Posey’s I be thinking." She brushed her long hair back from her face.

"Settle for a good lunch then," he paused again. "And an ale." Morek was known as a great cook. "Be here by full light in the morn." Morek nodded agreement.

Jeffers watched her as she walked back to her cottage, all matron again in that vast cloak. He shook his head. Changes like the sea he muttered to himself and thought briefly of his wife years passed from the wasting disease. His late wife, Lodda, would have liked Morek he felt. She had liked power in people.

Morek walked down toward the pier the next morning. The wind had easted slightly she noted. She wore high leather boots and a shorter but heavier cloak.

"Morning Morek." Morek passed Jeffers a cane basket and smacked his hand when he started to lift the heavy cloth covering the contents. "You will know lunch when you see it," she said.

They walked down the pier together. She noticed a slight limp. A lot of the older fishermen limped.

"You limp." She stated.

"Rope snarl on a heavy net. Happens to everyone, I was lucky. The Witch before you was good with bones."

"I haven't met many yet, only the Maretty kid. That went well enough. I think it’s easier when they are young. The break is different then."

They walked in silence to Jeffers's boat. Unlike some of the other boats it had a high prow and was wider in the middle.

"We be about two hours to Isle fall." Jeffers hauled a line pulling the sail further up the mast. The skiff as Jeffers called it moved easily over the sea. Morek sat facing forward partly sheltered by the half decking ahead of the mast. She liked the feel of spray on her face but was happy for the heavy cloak.

"First time on the sea?" Jeffers asked.

"Yes. It’s what I expected." Morek watched as Jeffers finished tying down a line and coil the extra rope neatly.

"You’ve been in Larrak Bay now a seven year. You be not what's expected." He sat at the tiller with an arm draped casually over it. "That don’t sound right. You don't keep yourself apart and make your powers a pride for others to be careful of." Morek sensed he chose his words carefully.

"You be a fisherman. You keep a tidy boat and know the sea. You have a feel for it and the weather. It’s just a different trade if you'd like." She turned in her seat to face him. Steady gray eyes crinkled back at her.

"Ye balance people. But there is more to you than what we see. I be certain for that," he pointed to the food basket. "And what be hiding there?" The eyes crinkled again.

For Morek there were moments with people when time seemed to wait while she explored the moment. She did not understand the mechanism behind this but accepted it as a prompt that something important had just happened...there is more to you that what we see. That was the key. This man was also more that he appeared although she suspected he knew it not. She understood then that this moment had ended but was certain of its return.

"There be bread, hard crusted, with cheese inside. A meat roll and cake for after’s...and an ale." She said.

The eyes flickered to the sky and sea. Jeffers pulled on a rope and made a turn round a cleat. He shook the sail in a measuring kind of way and sat again.

"Talked of the weather yesterday, asked I did for an easterly return wind. Seems there might be one, never mind what you said..."not in my Posey"...or some such." Again Morek felt the time transition. We are back in that moment again. What is he wanting? What does he need to know? Time seemed to stretch. Sometimes doubt brings the best response...Morek recalled her mother’s words.

"I am no Weather Winder but sometimes The Lady heeds our needs." She looked Jeffers in the eye.

"Well I thank you both. We of the sea know of The Lady, and woman she be." This time a full smile greeted her.

...thank you Mother...Morek in that instant of thought did not know if she spoke to her mother or ‘The Lady’ as Jeffers referred to Gaia.

Jeffers reached for a sail rope and unwound it from the cleat, letting the sail loosen, spilling wind as the breeze picked up. The timing of his handling of the sail, breeze and conversation was perfect.

Morek turned to face the front and could make out the twin hills of the Isle for the first time. It was then it struck Morek ... do I want to know this man?

In the lee of the Isle progress was slowed but it gave Morek time to look at these new surroundings. Jeffers was first onto the jetty to tie up and Morek helped by passing up the boxed fish. Her first step was unsteady stepping onto a stable surface. Jeffers steadied her. In spite of the cold spray and his handling of ropes and tiller his hand was surprisingly warm. She muttered a thank you and he turned to stack the last of the boxes.

Morek's hand still tingled from the contact. She looked anew at Jeffers. He was known as Old Jeffers in the village but that belied the reality of the man she saw.

"Why are you known as Old Jeffers?" The words were spoken before real thought.

He turned slowly. "Called that when my son was born," his eyes, clear and still, seemed devoid of emotion."Died in the accident that broke my leg." Jeffers turned away to finish his task. "I miss young Jeffers still." He turned to face Morek his head slightly on one side.

"But, Witch Morek that was not the real question," he straightened up. "My Lodda was a Witch. You can't live with a Witch and not learn things. A lot of things, little things mostly, about how to see people...and the sea." He put a hand on the luncheon hamper. "I would break bread with you."

That was the instant Morek knew she would handfast with this man.

"Make sure you recognize me when next we meet." She looked into the eyes crinkled with hidden laughter. "You will see myself."

"I will Witch Morek. I will." Morek turned and began the walk up the track a small smile touching the corners of her eyes. She smiled even more realizing she was acutely conscious of how she might look walking away. Unconsciously she ran a hand down the back of her skirt.

Jeffers leaned back with one arm over the tiller and drained the last of Morek's ale. He was at peace. Peace with himself, the sea, and the past. He remembered when Morek first came to Larrak Bay; she’d been a tallish woman, cloaked and red of hair. He recalled the gossip and snipes of the women. That had tailed off as they saw an older, good natured person of no interest to their men. A Witch she be, he had said to himself then, before he knew for certain. Lodda would have been drawn to her, he mused, as I am. He felt a twinge of anticipation thinking of their next meeting and reached to move the sail with a change in the wind. Make sure you recognize me. She had said. You will see myself. Jeffers thumped the cork back into the empty ale bottle. Oh! Aye I will. He thought and began to whistle quietly an old tune in time with the movement of the skiff in the waves.