The three quarter moon rode at half crest in its night journey from the east to the west before it would sink slowly and gloriously into the horizon only to rise once more on the bottom side of the world. Would its clouds drift with it...the clouds that obscured the clarity; that hid the kindness and caring so sought? Would the sailing moon take with it, the feeling of futility and fear because the witch once again felt betrayed and disillusioned at the unkindness at the hand of man?
The witch woke into the night, drenched in sweat and her mind raped with the ugliness of the images of the nightmare still lingering. She jerked upright, shaking off the clinging shroud of horror of the mental twists she had just seen and fighting with each labored breath for the need of reality and the correct facade it presented!
As she fought for balance emotionally, she railed out once again of the "Folie à deux" that had troubled for her many years. The manifestation of others twisted concepts that plagued her soul of being an empath. She was weary of it and weary of the curses it seemed to bring to her. She reached inside for the calming and steadfast pulse of her belief, drenching her shuddering with its peace and reassurance. It was her weapon against the marauding darkness of others mutilated spirits and their need for petty actions to justify their own internal misery and lack of faith.
The witch rose from the sweat drenched bed, bathed her face in cool water as she cleansed the perspiration from the rest of her body and night clothing. The fevered anxiety of the dream had left her weak with its onslaught against her gentler nature.
She found her way into her humble kitchen, poured a cup of blackberry-sage tea from the crock in the chilling hole, and drank it slowly as she set out the right items to do the banishing.
Some souls were unfix-able and this was one of them. Never to go against her crede to not harm anyone, she prepared the banishing spell in the small cauldron. She added the herbs, then the sacred oil, and finally the bit of clothe she had written the intruder's name on and with a flash of sulfur and vervain, she lit the mixture. When it began to smolder, its foul smoke drifting, she carried to her door stoop, and urged the idling night wind to carry it to her adversary. She reinforced its power with a thrice gesture of the athame, Charmaine, and the whispered spell plea.
She watched the smoke drift away from her abode and set in the wards to keep the negativity out. With a sad but satisfied sigh, she finished the tepid tea and then returned to her bedchamber to hopefully once again seek the refuge of sleep...dreamless.
The morning brought with it a sense of relief that daylight always did come to a troubled dreamer. She made herself a strong cup of coffee to chase away the logy feeling of the night before. Sometimes these emphatic dreams brought with them aches deep in her bones from the utter closeness of being near so twisted a soul. Being an natural born emphatic had made her choose the Path of the Craft. Without the influence of the banishing spells or healing spells, she felt vulnerable to all of the onslaughts that came her way.
The evil ones were not the ones that wracked her so but the ones of anguish and despair when she felt the loss of grief or confusion of undeserved abuse they felt but she also had those rare experiences of rampant joy and happiness when someone near her was gifted with the rarest of treasures, love.
Sometimes, the feelings of love of others muddled her own feelings for the one she loved but she had learned how to focus that away by the sheer will that nothing could snatch away her own joy. He was often away but she could feel him coming long before he reached the shack sitting deep within the interior of the swamp. Her little peninsula of land afforded her the luxury of horseback instead of the tiny pirogue that many of the other inhabitants of the backwash land used. The twisting bayous and slime green color of the bayou water often made her queasy so she felt she suffered a bit of seasickness which seemed totally inane for a swamp witch and a native born one at that.
Her lover on the other hand loved the small, flat-bottomed boats of a design associated particularly with the Cajuns of the Louisiana marsh. He said he could carry it anywhere and it took no feed as did Découvrir, her horse. The little boat could carry more supplies than the horse or so he said. She laughed when she thought of it. He called her his "mer seak Cajun" as if no such thing could exist. She was sad to inform him that a sea-sick Cajun could exist because she existed.
As the sun climbed higher over the moss-laden cypresses, she could feel him coming. Perhaps this time he would bring some of the "sucre candi dur" she craved.
In Arbe Noir, she was known as the "avoidance" because she seemed to have declined her heritage of the Catholic religion and become a rebel to her kin and the townspeople. So she avoided town as much as possible.
Henri was kind enough to gather her supplies when he was home off the oyster boat.
She felt her heart leap with pleasure as she heard the quick swish of the poles as the pirogue drew near and her night of nightmares would vanish with his presence.
There would again come a time to deal with Jura, her twisted brother, but not today!
(This story will probably continue on as time permits. Thanks for reading!)