WEEK 1 Vanora and the Witch Ornice

Greetings! Crow cawed. In the darkness of the night,

Crow glanced around him. He perched on the branch of a

dwarf tree planted not far from the cliffs across from a stone

cottage with a thatched roof, his belly feathers like cotton

candy gently lifted by the rough sea wind. He cawed again.

He heard a reply. Not one caw, but a murder of crows

announcing ominous winds of change on the way. They

knew they would have to leave the island very fast.

Crow fixed his eyes one more time on the cottage’s

window. He saw the flicker of a candle flame. He stretched

his neck—good . . . the girl was still up. He let out a louder
caw to get her attention, but the girl by the window remained

gazing down to the sea. She was lost in her thoughts.

Vanora was her name . . . the girl who lived in that

cottage. She lived with her father Fergal, a well-liked

fishermen who had a stall by the fish market. Her mother,

named Fridora, had disappeared at sea when Vanora was

just a baby, so it was just the two of them in the cottage.

Vanora didn’t feel alone because she had his company most

of the time, except early mornings when he went out to fish.

But he was always home before sundown.

Crow and the girl were the best of friends. They talked all

the time in that strange language of birds. But to Vanora he

wasn’t cawing—she heard him speak with a human voice.

They chatted about the daily catch, they chatted about the

weather, chatted about the neighbors in (ON) the Island of

Cloghanulk and all the hustle and bustle that went on at the

market. They shared tales of fishermen at sea and Crow’s

travels to the surrounding islands. They talked about his

relatives, (ADD COMMA) the ravens, who lived by the cliffs

and kept an eye on the villagers and on one particular former

dweller, a beautiful dark-haired, olive-skinned woman named

Ornice who could summon winds, spirits, and seas as well

as chant invocations and call strange creatures to her

dwelling. What happened to the woman? Tales have it she

drowned, but witches do not drown. Tales have it she flew

away, and others . . . well, too many tales to believe anyway.

One thing for sure, dead or alive, everyone feared

beautiful Ornice, except one man, Seasel, an old blind man

and the village’s seer.

 Crow’s screeches became louder, but the wind’s howling

drowned them. He flew toward the cottage, but a fierce wind

knocked him to the ground. He flew back to the tree and

curled his talons harder around the branch to keep himself

steady. Squalls were crushing the shrubs that grew between

the shale and bent the branches to the ground. Crow didn’t

move from the safety of his spot while other crows huddled

inside their hollows.

Vanora heard the wood shutter’s clap, clap, slapped by

the powerful gale. She heard the wind’s whistle become a

roar. Her heart fluttered like the flickering candle sitting by

the window. It was late and her father had not come home.

Darkness covered the island, and along came an echo of

waves crashing on the cliff’s walls. Vanora’s restlessness

grew as she waited for her father’s return--something inside

her told it was evil her father had countered. He wouldn’t risk

going out to sea if he knew the weather showed signs of

turning treacherous. Vanora, not wanting to wait a minute

longer, rushed down the small wooden staircase to the first

floor. She reached for a woolen coat and shawl that hung

from a peg on the wall before running out the door. Crow

watched from a few yards away. He cawed one last time in a

desperate attempt to warn her not to go out.

Vanora set off down the slippery path, the only road that

bordered along the cliffs to the village below. The wind made

her unstable on her feet and the relentless rain blinded her,

preventing her from looking ahead. Making matters worse, a

dark menacing cloud of mist rose slowly from the ocean,

covering the entire island. Vanora, disheartened, turned

back to the cottage. Inside she hung her coat and shawl to
dry near the fire and took a seat close to the warm hearth.

She reached for a bellows and blew a few times to stir the

flame. The logs in the fire sparked with popping sounds and

flames began to twirl and form strange dancing figures

before her. Vanora was too tired to think . . . her eyes grew

heavy . . . soon she fell asleep.

A sudden knock at the door startled Vanora, who

jumped up and looked around the place. A second knock,

louder than the first, sent shivers through her body. She

heard someone call her name.

“Vanora, child, open the door. I bring yer news of yer

farther.” His accent was heavy Cloghanulk—it had a melodic

intonation that she recognized as typical of her island, for

each island that bordered the ocean had a particular accent

that set it apart from the others.

 Vanora rushed to open the door—someone was

bringing news of her father. Calvagh, the Bold One, a

fisherman, neighbor, and best friend of Vanora’s father, was

at the door sopping from head to toe. With trembling fingers

he was holding his cap and standing in a puddle of water

around his feet.

“Child, I have news that will not please ye,” he said as

he lowered his voice and cast down his eyes. “Old Fergal—

God bless him—he’s nowhere to be found. His . . . his Púcán

arrived empty. God have mercy on him.” His last words were

a whisper.

Vanora broke into sobs. Calvagh lowered his head

revealing a crown of peach fuzz atop his head.

“Vanora, child, we’ll go out to sea first thing in the

morrow to look for him. Fergal will come home. I promise ye

that.” Calvagh set the cap over his head and left, closing the

door behind him. Crow, even from afar, heard the news, and

his entire body covered in dense coal-black feathers shook.

Continued on www.emmelinelakin.com Blog