The Woodland's Child

I’m jealous of her.

I know I best not; I should be happy that the woman remains a part of my life, but I can’t help but envy the practices of my mother. Everything comes so naturally to her: the plantings, the rituals, the contacting - I would do anything to have the same ease.

People say the world has returned to how it was a thousand years ago, but that’s just the old folks whose parents lived in a world of smog and desolation. They’re the ones who pass down songs of machines called automobiles and towns that were so spread about that walking across them was a day’s journey. The old ones tell us - the younger who haven’t lived in such misery - that contacting the nature gods was more difficult, that seeing the flickering ghost of an ancestor was impossible.

What ancient being would care to return to a world so unlike their own?

I think it's nonsense, if all of that were true then I wouldn’t be struggling to reach out - my prayers and rituals wouldn’t be pointless. Mum thinks it's simple, that I’ll grow into my craft myself, but when adulthood is only four short months away, I fear it will never come to me. Perhaps all of my youthful wonder about what the world in 2000 was like, those hundreds of years ago, plagued my body so that my ancestors abstain from visiting my dreams. 

I sigh, rising from my bed and heading to my altar. It’s a personalised one, small, and sometimes I wish it were out of my sight. Mum had provided the cloth, stitching it together herself - the strands dyed with weld, lady bedstraw, and nettle. I never understood how she produced such vibrant colours from her simple walks into the woods. She would say the faeries guided her to find the correct berries and plants: no fae folk has ever reached out to me. 

My shoulders rise and fall as I suck in a deep breath, letting the fresh air fill my lungs. Birds chirp in the distance, and the smell of rain on the horizon fills my nose. My mind drifts to the different gods and goddesses that I ought to reach towards in these trying times: Brigid, perhaps Danu, Cernunnos. My body follows the motions of my morning prayer, the one my mother taught me ages ago, the one her mother passed to her - so on and so forth.

There’s a gentle knock on the door, just as I snuff out the candles and close my offering box. “Aisling, breakfast is ready.” 

Standing, my bones settle back into place - at seventeen I’m more achy than I ought to be. Mum says I’m an old soul. Once again, the failure of my family to reach out makes me doubt the statement. Breakfast - a bore. I know this as the summer berries aren’t quite ready yet. I know it’s for the best, that the lands are most fertile when we follow their natural cycles, but I’ve been craving blackberries since March. 

Returning to the practices of the past - what a concept.

That’s been the motto for the past few decades. It’s not terrible, quite the opposite. Mum tells stories of watching street cars become popular once more, the streets filled with people and the hustle and bustle of wooden carts. Of course, I hadn’t lived to see anything other than that. My life has always been filled with the neighbourhood garden and the gatherings on street corners. Maybe if my ancestors would finally reach out I would see why this is such a feat for mankind to take on.

My mind wanders as I assist Mum in setting the table for the day - porcelain bowls filled with oats, edible flowers, and honey to add a touch of sweetness. The days are growing warmer and I know I’ll want to cast off the meal for the summer, but for now, it fills my stomach with comfort.

Mum slides into the seat across from me, “So, what are your plans for today?”

The routine, every breakfast has this question, and every time I have the same answer: “I’ll just have to see where the day takes me.” How she hasn’t grown tired of the identical response ever, I will never know. Mum refuses to let life get to her: none of the terrible things out there - the old news reports, my melancholic outlook - rip into her as they do to others. 

All she does is smile at me, the gentle grin she uses in the mornings to prick up the day, the one she uses when my scrying technique fails, the one she used when I was young and being tucked into bed. My mother is as close to a saint as someone can get, maybe even a goddess herself - that would explain why her spells always go far better than my own. Mum stands up as she finishes her breakfast, placing the bowl beside the sink for me to wash: that’s our method since it's only the two of us. She cooks, I clean. The sink sits filled with water - no taps left running as I work. 

The monotony of the action eases me into the day. As my rag brushes over the bowls, my brain wracks through the tasks of the day. School is off the table since we have a few days off for Ostara - that reminds me that I’m meant to fetch the seeds for the planting ritual. I could stop by Tristen’s house, just to give me something to do. His place is on the way to the town centre.

There’s one thing that doesn’t leave my thoughts though, no matter how much I try to scrub it away.

The mirror already lies ready in the drawer under my altar. The incense is ready to be burned. With a quiet house, scrying would be a perfect activity to pass the time. 

Before I can sit down and dedicate another day to activities that I know will annoy me, I begin packing my going-out bag. My trolley pass, wallet, notebook, all the little things that I need to get through my travels as well as an extra tote for when I ultimately get something. This will be far more useful than sitting before my mirror and reaching out to people who want nothing to do with me. It's for the best that I get something else to fill my mind, something that isn’t related to my ancestors or who they were - their practices. Those are the thoughts that have been crushing my soul for the past few months, ever since I started changing my practice more and more. Divination and necromancy are a nice mix.

I step out of my house, a cool breeze brushing over my cheeks and streaming through my hair. With it, the smell of sweet flowers from the garden drifts into my nose. Everything is so clear in the world, bright, singing with life - but all I can think about are the dead, the ones that are not here to walk with me.

Shaking my head, I put one foot in front of the other. They carry me down the stone path to Tristen’s house. We had met up the previous weekend, but I’m ready for another go. That way, the both of us won’t be rotting away in our homes. His mum always nags him to get out more. His dad is bound to start saying the same if the boy doesn’t start listening soon.

"Ash!” Tristen yells out in his sing-songy voice. My nan used to say he had the voice of a merrow and I never knew if she meant it as a compliment or not. Tristen, of course, ran with it, telling everyone up and down the street that he would leer them away with his captivating melodies. “What pleasure do I owe you on this fine morning?”

Always with the theatrics.

“I’m heading into town and was wondering if you’d like to tag along?”

He thinks it over for a minute, his face drooping slightly from its previously contorted smirk. “Into town?”

“That’s where I’m going. I need to pick up a few things.” The boy steps from foot to foot, which makes me realise he’s run out without proper shoes on again, “I’m fairly certain the shops require some sort of footwear.” 

Huffing, he trudges back to his house, “I’ll be out in a second, don’t go off without me!” Before the door can even slam shut, Tristen is springing back out of the house, frown wiped away and a happy-go-lucky smirk across his face. That boy can change in an instant, if I wasn’t so certain he was human I would think him a sídhe or else wicked.

“Off we go?” He nods in response.

We make our way to the trolley stop, the one that will bring us further into town. As the morning continues the threat of rain seems higher; I wouldn’t be surprised given where we live, but I’d rather not be caught up in a rainstorm. Again. 

Tristen and I make idle chatter on the trolley before giving our thanks and walking off. Despite the intensifying gloomy weather, the town centre bustles with life. It’s a rather beautiful sight: many of the seemingly ancient buildings still stand and those that had been torn away in the past were rebuilt to their previous glorious standing. The bricks of the buildings are vibrant with life, many of them having ivy or lichens growing up the faces of them. I’m thankful that someone in the past put in the effort to create buildings that work with the ivy instead of just cutting the plant down. 

Towns like these look more alive when they have a bit of greenery to them. 

Tristen drags me off to a shop, one he wants to go to first. I let him - after all, I was the one who pulled him into all of this. A music shop, for the music fanatic: he truly isn’t beating the siren allegations any time soon. 

I run through the list of things I need one more time. I mustn’t forget the seeds or Mum will fret, maybe if I try green candles this time my scrying will go better.

There I go, right back to thinking about the thing that I told myself I wouldn’t think about. Tristen looks me over, once and then twice. “Don’t think too hard, Ash, I’ll start to smell smoke.”

I roll my eyes - the amount of jokes I’ve heard that go like that. You’d think since Tristen has known me for so long he’d come up with something more original. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind.” We wander into another shop, a florist. Peering around the seeds I try to remember which ones Mum had suggested: lilies I’m sure of, primrose, and… 

Tristen dangles a pack of eyebright seeds. “What’s going on? And don’t say nothing because I know you’ll be lying.” 

I snatch the pack from his hands and stalk off down another aisle. There’s nothing else I need to get, but I need something to do that isn’t answering Tristen’s question. That doesn’t stop him from trailing me down though. 

“Come on, I’m your friend, you’re meant to tell me these sorts of things.” He refuses to give it up, which only grinds my gears further.

“Maybe I can even help you with it,” Tristen smirks.

My face tightens as I turn around to face him, “You’re not going to be able to help me with this, this is all on me.” 

His shoulders drop, “That can’t possibly be true.” 

“Well, it is. My family doesn’t want to reach out and that’s all because of me.” 

There was a heavy silence in the air - tension settling between us. I didn’t enjoy saying those words, but I knew in my heart that they were true. Thunder roared in the distance; soon enough the rain I smelled on the horizon earlier would be upon us. It would be a downpour. 

Tristen took a step forward as I swallowed down another shout, “What? You don’t like it when I state the obvious?” 

The boy grimaced a little, face soon morphing to a look of slight annoyance. “Maybe if you weren’t so down on yourself you wouldn’t be struggling like this.” It took all I had to not let my mouth fall open. Tristen never said things like that.

The feeble attempt to calm myself failed. “Fine! Go off and spend the rest of your day tucked up in your house for all I care.” I clutched my bag close to my side, brushing past the boy and stomping back down the street to the trolley stop so I could rush home. I’d barely spent any time away, but anger was still bubbling up in my chest from what Tristen had said. 

As I stepped onto the trolley, it was soon replaced with guilt. I would have gotten off right then and run, try to apologise to him for saying such a stupid thing, but as I turned to look out the window he was already lost in the crowd.

The house was still empty as I walked back through the front door. The anger that had flooded my system had dissipated, halting me from slamming the door shut behind me. Part of me wanted to crawl into bed and never come out until I was eighty years old, another part was still latched onto what Tristen had said. Just because he was right didn’t mean he had to go and shout it out to the world.

Placing the seed packets on the kitchen table, the other things I had bought burned in my bag. There were candles; I regretted the purchase now. 

It was silly, but it was agonising to me. All I wanted was a little bit of guidance from my ancestors, was that too much to ask for? There were a dozen other people I knew in town who were able to reach out without any trouble at all, then there was me, someone who couldn’t even get the simplest of techniques down. 

My chest aches as I stalk into my room, pulling my materials from my drawers. One more time, I was going to go for it one more time. If it didn’t work… then I would just have to move on with my life.

It was easy to say that, of course. I tried not to think about what I would do with myself if it didn’t work.

Taking a few deep breaths to calm myself, I struck a match to burn incense. Frankincense. Salt. A clear mind. I had everything but the last. My thoughts were still blurring together with everything I had failed to do; everything I was terrible at. This was a last-ditch effort to succeed and just the idea alone caused fear to course through my heart. With my family history, I was meant for greatness: with how the world had changed in the past decades I was meant to do the things my ancestors couldn’t, but I was falling flat.

A bit of hot wax dripped onto my hand as I went to place a candle. None of this was fair; why did everyone else in my life find their magical sides so easy to work with while I was still ruining everything I touched?

My head hung - whether it was reverence or shame I couldn’t tell. I was nothing but a black mark on my family’s history. 

There were swift knocks on my door. “Aisling, you home, dear?” 

I thought about not answering, of pretending that I was still out in town, but lying to my mother wouldn’t help the humiliation in my chest. “I’m here.” My voice must have been trembling because she asked to come in. I replied yes.

“I would have thought you’d be out the rest of the day.” She crossed her arms as she came into my domain, but there wasn’t a sense of anger or annoyance in the air. “Thank you for picking up the seeds today.” 

“I said I would.” My voice snaps back harsher than I would have liked. Mum didn’t do anything wrong; she’s never done anything to hurt me in any way, it’s just the anger bubbling up inside of me again. I struggle to push it back down into its recesses. A long time ago, maybe a lifetime or so, my nan had warned me about anger, how fury could be a powerful force used for good or evil. 

Not a single part of me wanted to be like those witches in the ancient tomes who common folk thought were wretched creatures. I wasn’t anything like that. Most of the time, I don’t think they were either. My nan trusted they weren’t, always talking about how the world didn’t understand or appreciate people like us back then, didn’t see how we were only following what we were taught, that our magic was an intricate part of our history - of our souls. 

Nan. 

Somehow my mind always circled back to her. 

My chest began to tighten, face heated up. Years-old tears were piling up behind my eyes and for once I couldn’t do anything to stop them from falling down my face in fat globs. Squeezing my eyes shut, they snuck through my lashes until my cheeks were covered in a thin layer of saltwater. 

Soft arms wrapped around my torso, bringing me into the tender embrace of my mum, the one other person who felt the same agony over my nan’s death as I did. “I want her back.”

“I know, Aisling.”

It was quiet for a long time after that, faint sounds coming from beyond the windows. Thunder rolled in the distance, and the pitter-pattering of rain had grown faint. I turned my head, looking out the scratched glass. 

“We can sit out if you want, I think it’d be good for both of us.” Mum guided me, a hand on my back, to the back step. Standing under the overhanging thatching, I could feel my dejection wash from my skin. With hesitance, I reached an arm forward, feeling raindrops dance across my skin. We sat for a while, letting the storm seep into our bones and cleanse us from the inside. 

Mum sucked in a deep breath, “Your nan was the one who told me everything that I know: the herbs, candles, what spells to put out there on what sabbat, but she didn’t just teach me the magic sort of things.” My brow shot up, peering over at her, Mum continued, “She taught me how to set up these barrels-” she knocked on one of the wooden rain collection barrels “-what fruits and vegetables were in season, all through the year. Ma taught me how to connect with nature in a way that benefits us both - so we could survive and prosper for centuries to come.” 

Taking in a breath, I didn’t know what to say. None of the thoughts I conjured made any sort of sense, nor did they feel like they were the right things to say. I didn’t want to stay silent though. Leaning into my mother’s side, her arm wrapped around me once more. “I wish she was still here to teach. I wish I could just talk to her.”

Mum let out a sigh, sounding like she was holding back tears, “I wish the same thing. Every day I wake up and pray that I could see her one more time. She would have adored working with you, the gods know she was a far better teacher than I’ll ever be.” 

The tone of Mum’s voice rattled through my bones, making me feel a bit queasy. I wanted her help - it had dawned on me - even if she thought it wasn’t enough. More than anything I wanted to work through my practice just as she had done, learning from the people that had come before me. There were small things that she had shown me, the sorts that most magical folk can grasp onto, even I could, but I wanted her to teach me all of it.

Just as my nan had done for her, I wanted my mother to teach me the ways of the world. 

“I think you could make a great teacher.” My head turned to look up to her, a small smile forming across my lips. 

Mum smiled down at me as well, the sky seemed to brighten as she did, “Is that so?” 

I nodded. The sun began to break through the clouds, warming my skin with each of its rays. “Maybe it's for the best if I have someone guiding me through this all.” It wasn’t something that I had put much thought of in before, thinking that instead, I could figure everything out for myself.

I should have known that this wasn’t something that one could do solo; magic was something that was passed down from generation to generation, just as our farming and clothes-making practices were. This was another craft, another art, that I needed a guiding hand with.

The rain came to a petering halt; the enticing scent of petrichor wafted through the garden. Mum rose to her feet, stretching out and grinning into the expanse of wildlife before her. “Give me a moment. You’re going to have your first lesson.” 

I raised a brow as she waltzed back into the house, soon coming out with a small wooden bowl. Now standing as well, I peered into it, “Honey and flowers?”

“You talk about the fae not reaching out to you, right? That’s because most fae won’t even get near people if they don’t have some sort of offering given to them.” She began down the path into the woods that stretched behind our house, holding the bowl tightly. “Honey, cream, anything sweet.” I followed her, listening to the knowledge that she was giving me. 

There were many things that she had yet to tell me about our garden, about the woods, because she feared she wouldn’t teach me about them properly. I didn’t mind though, like a sponge I soaked up every single tidbit of information she would give me. Every so often, Mum would go off on a tangent - something regarding her mother and how she would have taught me what I needed to know.

“In her time there were still a few elders that remembered the world before, what life was.” The way she spoke was like a melody, drifting me into a dreamlike trance. As clear as a photograph, I could imagine this place that was supposed to be my home but wasn’t, a world before we had returned to our ancient ways to preserve ourselves and our homeland. “They say there was smog in the cities that squeezed your lungs, caking them in black soot. The only true way to get around was with automobiles.” She broke out into laughter, “I couldn’t imagine myself ever driving one of those things. Far too dangerous for my liking.”

I learned the reasons why the trees around town looked younger than they should have - they were young, not nearly as old as the primordial ones that hid away in the deep groves of the forest I had yet to discover. The water that ran through town used to be a putrid brown colour. I couldn’t imagine that the town’s children would want to go about swimming in that mess. There were so many things that I didn’t know about, but my mother taught me all about - the sorts of things that only the elders in the town could pass down to those who would listen.

We continued our conversation over dinner, me helping far more of the cooking than I ever had before. There was a whole realm of kitchen magic that I hadn’t interacted with before, but now that I was testing the waters it felt wonderful. According to Mum, my nan did lots of kitchen magic, the kinds that someone could mix into their daily lives without much effort. This was a way to convene with the mystical world that I found myself picking up like it was child’s play.

For so long I had been trying to connect with my ancestors directly, to learn about the things of the past through their voices, but my mother was beginning to teach me that wasn’t the only way to reach out. There were ways I could honour those that had come before me; I could repeat the tasks that they did, the kinds of magic that they practised.

One day, I will return to the occult, to necromancy and divination, but for now, I’m going to do other sorts of magic. Mum has taught me how their traditions can save us, even from ourselves.