Tomorrows Child (2 page)

Without
hospitals, our only access to medicine consisted of herbal remedies
and concoctions brewed in the kitchen. Libby called it “delirium
fever” as if that were a proper diagnosis. She treated Mum with
tinctures and teas and soaked her feet in herbal brews. Then we
wrapped her body in hot cloths to draw out the poison. Libby even
hung magick charms from the bed head to chase away mysterious
things and she cleansed the room with incense and smoking sage. We
treated everything from influenza to demonic curses. Nothing
helped.

Nine days after
the fever appeared, my mother died.

Some men,
strangers then, dug a grave at the bottom of the garden and did
what neither Libby nor I had the heart to do. They lowered her body
into the ground and covered my beautiful mother with damp
earth.

We stood on the
edge of the grave that day, under a grey sky, in the misty rain and
said our final goodbyes. I watched the rain fall on the red dirt
and trickle into the grave, forming little rivers that looked like
blood flowing from the earth. Libby spoke words of love and told
stories about the girl she used to know. I said nothing.

My world
changed in an instant; the sanity was gone and darkness replaced
the only love I had ever known. At first, it was unbearable, the
ache in my heart, unimaginable. I wanted to die, I wished for it to
come. I even thought I could end my life and join my mother. I
tried, but I failed. I doubted Libby would mourn my passing, she
hardly knew me. There was no one else.

I prayed that I
would go to sleep and not wake up. But each morning, I would wake
with my eyelashes crusted in salt. Tears formed before I opened my
eyes and a bitter acidic taste burned my throat. I wallowed in the
grief of my life and waited to die. And I waited.

Until, one day,
I no longer wanted to die.

A labyrinth of
paths wove in and out of Libby’s garden. Vegetables grew beneath
fruit trees and vines rambled over the hen house. Herbs grew
everywhere, scattered in the garden like weeds. Delicate herbs were
pampered in pots while others had become rambling hedges. There was
no space wasted and nothing left untended. It had to be this way if
we were going to survive.

It’s possible
that I could get lost wandering in Libby’s garden, more than
possible, actually; my sense of direction is appalling. I am
probably the only teenage girl capable of getting lost in a
shopping centre, or at least I used to.

If Libby's
garden is a labyrinth, then her house is Aladdin’s cave, but not
the type of cave filled with riches and treasure. Hers was more
like an eclectic hoarder’s cave with storage for every useful tool
and device invented in the past hundred years. I didn’t know
everything that Libby had stashed away for the next rainy day, but
her motivation made sense in an obsessive kind of way.

Noise in the
kitchen told me that Libby was awake. I knew her routine: stoke the
fire in the woodstove, boil water for tea and prepare oat porridge
for breakfast. Some days it was eggs, but I could smell the oats
cooking; today it was porridge. I let the sun bathe my face for
just a moment longer before joining her.

“Morning,
Libby,” I said as I forced a smile.

“Good morning,
Psyche. You’re up early.” Libby was already dressed and drinking
tea when I sat at the table. She didn’t look old enough to be my
grandmother or at least, she never looked like the grandmother I
expected. Today, her grey hair was pulled away from her face to
reveal tiny creases around her blue eyes. She didn’t have deep
wrinkles, her movements weren’t slow and she didn’t complain about
her aging body. She was youthful and energetic, “sprite” was the
term she used to define herself, and I thought that described her
perfectly.

“Are you ready
to start your lessons today?” I knew Libby wasn’t sure how I would
answer. She refused to watch me wallow in grief any longer and made
me promise that I would leave my room and choose to live. I made
this promise reluctantly, but I also promised that I would
participate in the “family legacy” and catch up on the “lost
years”. I still wasn’t sure what this meant, but I made the promise
anyway; it seemed such a small thing compared to everything else.
I’d just spent the better part of three months living in exile,
wallowing in self-pity, treating Libby as if she didn’t exist and
behaving like a spoilt child. Guilt oozed as the realisation hit me
and I felt ashamed for the first time. Mum would have been
disappointed.

“Sure,” I
shrugged, “today is as good a day as any.” I swallowed the lump of
guilt and smiled again.

“Perfect,” she
said, “today is a wonderful day for magick.” Libby leapt from her
chair and pulled a large book from one of the shelves that lined
the walls. They held hundreds of books. I hadn’t bothered to read
the spines to see what subjects interested her; perhaps today I
would.

“This is our
family diary; it is a tradition that we pass from mother to
daughter.” Libby paused and held her hand to her heart, “But we
also have our own. Your Mum and I have a similar book and you will
begin writing in yours today.”

Libby noticed
the look on my face and frowned, “It’s more than just a diary or
history book, it’s an instruction manual for life. It’s our
family’s Book of Shadows. It holds all the wisdom I have learnt,
the lessons my mother taught me and all that her mother taught her.
Generations of Darnell women have contributed to the information in
this book.”

I took the old
book and opened the cover. A musty odour escaped from the yellowing
pages. I noticed that some of the entries were very old, while
others were quite new. There appeared to be no particular order to
the entries, not by date or category, nothing seemed to organise
the information. But I held the book carefully and couldn’t help
but acknowledge a certain reverence for the seemingly ancient
text.

I knew that
these pages contained secrets about my family and a prophecy that
secured my destiny. I should have felt the weight of this, but I
didn’t. The prophecy was the “madness” Mum had referred to. This
was going to be interesting.

Libby flicked
through the book and stopped at a page covered in writing too small
to read from across the table. This ink was black and written in a
messy script. There were places where the ink blurred and ran into
the word next to it, but on the next page, the same words were
written neatly, the inked text, crisp and clear. This was the
prophecy.

A light tap at
the door caught my attention; it was Phoenix. His family lived next
door and they were Libby’s surrogate family. She had known Phoenix
since birth and he was a regular visitor. He was also the only
neighbour brave enough to spend time in the presence of Libby’s
lifeless granddaughter.

“Hi Libby; hi
Psyche,” Phoenix’s smile warmed the room as he greeted us. “You’re
looking better today.”

Phoenix was
well aware I had spent most of my time in bed or sulking in the
garden. When he visited, he made small talk or silently sat next to
me in a futile attempt to help me deal with my grief. I ignored him
and hoped he would go away, but he never did.

I felt the heat
of Phoenix's gaze and looked up to see him watching me, staring,
really. It was long enough to make me feel uncomfortable. I looked
away. He seemed to be searching for something or waiting for me to
respond to some unspoken question, but I had nothing to say so he
turned to Libby and asked, “Do you need fire wood? I have to split
logs for Mum and thought you might need some too.”

It was
Phoenix’s responsibility to split firewood for everyone, so
normally he didn’t ask, he just turned up with logs and filled the
wood box. Libby accepted Phoenix's offer, and we continued with the
lesson.

A new
leather-bound book had appeared on the table. Embossed in the
centre of the burgundy cover was an unfamiliar symbol. Libby
explained that this was my name, written as a witch’s symbol, just
as it would have been four hundred years ago. Engraved at the top
of the cover was a crescent moon. A leather cord wrapped around the
book and held it closed, keeping its secrets safe from prying
eyes.

My fingers
trembled as I carefully unwound the cord, consumed by expectation.
Folding the leather cover back, I noticed that the pages were
smooth and creamy, but they were all blank. I imagined the book
would hold the secrets that Libby spoke about. I expected the
magick to leap out, devouring me like a hungry beast… that’s what I
imagined anyway.

“This is your
book, Psyche. You must fill the pages with the lessons important to
you. Your words will fill this book, not mine, not your
mother’s.”

I was afraid of
what the book contained, but now that I'd discovered the pages were
blank, part of me was disappointed. I was far too boring and not at
all magical. There was no point writing anything in my newly
acquired “Book of Shadows” or filling the pristine pages with messy
scribble.

“Sweetie, you
look disappointed when you should be excited.”

“It’s just, I
was expecting more… or something.” It meant a lot to Libby and I
smiled, trying to muster up some enthusiasm. She turned to the
prophecy in the old book and began to read…

Listen to me, daughters
of yew, willow and oak

Listen to me, children
of the earth

You have kept the faith
beyond the days of the hunt

You have kept the
promise,

The earth is your
mother and she knows your heart

These words are your
gift, and this gift is your guidance,

hear me well

The veil that protects
you is the veil that protects all

The veil will fail in
the era of the Ninth Daughter

This is the age of
endings and of beginnings

From daughter to
daughter nine times

For my knowledge is
your knowledge and your knowledge is her knowledge

This link, from you to
the ninth daughter shall remain unbroken

Always enduring, always
eternal

The first daughter is
the keeper of ancient wisdom

The second will keep
the secrets hidden

The third is the
pretender and walks unseen

The fourth daughter is
the seer and she will see the way

The fifth seeks the
ancient land

The sixth is the
circle-maker and she will find the sacred place

The seventh is the
death speaker, she will lead the way

The eighth daughter
sings the songs that heal our mother

All this will pass to
the ninth daughter

The knowledge from the
first and the gifts from all

The ninth daughter is
the dreamer of dreams

She is the keeper of
secrets, the custodian of the stone

She is every daughter’s
daughter, she is the last

Embrace these words, my
daughters,

for this is my sacred
gift to you.

I sat silently,
absorbing the words. I could feel my heart beating and hear the
sound of my breath. Libby sat with her eyes closed; she may have
kept them closed the entire time; perhaps she knew this verse by
heart.

“Psyche, this
is your heritage, this is the promise we are sworn to keep. I took
an oath when I was twelve and your mother did the same. You’re
seventeen, Psyche, so much wasted time…” Libby’s eyes glistened
with unshed tears as a memory from the past flicked across her
mind.

“This is the
first entry for your book and now would be a good time to begin,”
she handed me a pen and I began to write. My scrawly writing etched
across the paper. The daughters’ words filled my head; perhaps it
was the importance of the words or maybe the words themselves that
held the magick. I imagined the daughters, living through the ages,
sitting and writing the same words I wrote. I could see the clothes
they wore, the rooms in which they sat. I could hear the sounds and
smell the aromas that infused their lives.

When I
finished, I sat speechless, no words were necessary. Libby sat
across from me looking… smiling… it was the same look Phoenix had
given me earlier that day.

“You need to
rest,” she said. "Let’s have morning tea. Phoenix will be here soon
anyway and that boy is always hungry.”

As Libby boiled
the water and put leaves in an old china teapot, she spoke about
the first daughter. I’m not sure if this was conversation or
education, perhaps both.

“The first
daughter, Mary Darnell was born in the 1700s. The official witch
trials had been over for a while, though the persecution continued.
In those days, all women were viewed suspiciously, especially
midwives and healers. Walking in the woods alone or miscarrying a
child was enough to be accused of witchcraft. Mary grew up with
this fear and it forced her to keep the knowledge a secret, even
from her own husband.

“The sad thing
is that it wasn’t knowledge that warranted death, it was wisdom
passed down from mother to daughter since time began. It was the
wisdom of the earth, the knowledge to heal and an understanding of
the cycles of nature and life. However, it was wisdom and knowledge
held mostly by women who honoured the Goddess in a world dominated
by men who worshipped a jealous God. In the end, it was more about
power and fear than anything substantial.”

“So they really
did murder women for witchcraft?”

“They murdered
millions: men, women and children.”

“I thought this
was a myth, like unicorns and fairies.” I have a vivid imagination,
but I’d never given much thought to witches or the myths that
surround magick and mythical creatures. Venturing beyond the pages
of a fairytale was new territory for my imagination.

“What did your
mother teach you? I am surprised she never talked about the witch
trials.”