WEEK 4

VANORA AND THE CHANTING WINDS

Vanora and Crow made it home before the sun appeared

in the horizon. She jumped into bed and waited. All was

quiet until she heard the woman shout.

“Vanora. Vanoooraaaa!”

Vanora bolted right up in her bed. A cold sweat ran

through her body. She trembled. “Yes ma’am,” she

answered meekly. Vanora didn’t wait for the woman’s

second screech. She ran out of the room in a flash.

While there was fire on the hearth, there was no milk to be

had. The villagers say that when there are witches, the cows’

milk curdles. Vanora’s cow Odile faired worse—she had

stopped giving milk altogether.

 “Go, girl. Get ufs fsome hare meat!” demanded the old

hag.

Vanora had never killed a hare. She did not hunt. Men did

the hunting on the island. But how could she tell that to the

old hag? Vanora ran outside looking for Crow.

“Crow! You have to help me,” she said in a low voice.

There was no answer. No birds were singing and the air

stood still. The wind and the ocean seemed to have stopped

breathing—all was silent. “Pst, Crow, help me. Please,”

Vanora pleaded.

Crow flew to Vanora. “Hush, Milady. I know. I know . . . I

heard the old hag ask for hare. Let’s go get her some,” he

said calmly. He flew ahead of Vanora to the forest. “Wait

here, Milady,” he said as they reached the trees. Vanora sat

waiting on a fallen tree trunk. She didn’t have to wait long,

because in front of her appeared a creel of hare meat. They

were all skinned, cleaned, and ready to be put into the pot.

“Just one thing, Milady—do not eat any of this meat,” warned

Crow. Vanora nodded a yes. Feeling relieved, she set off for

the cottage carrying the creel with enough hares to make the

old hag happy.

At the sight of the plump little hares, the old hag began

salivating. “Mmm . . . good fstuff, rabbit fstew . . . .”

Vanora threw a plump hare into a pot with potatoes and

some garden greens and hung it on the iron hob to cook. It

was some time later when the stew was ready that the old

hag sat down with her long skirt tucked between her legs

and her elbows resting on her knees. Her face bespoke

hunger and greed.

 Vanora, seeing the old hag deep in her thoughts, backed

away silently until she reached the wooden stairs, she then

scuttled back to her room. Aromas of a delicious stew flowed

in the air. Her stomach grumbled. She opened the window

and Crow was waiting for her perched on the sill.

“Remember Milady, do not eat the stew no matter how

delectable it might look and smell. It’s not intended for you.”

Vanora waited anxiously to hear the old hag call her, but

when she heard nothing she figured the old woman was

enjoying her meal and didn’t want her to partake of it with

her. To Vanora’s delight, Crow brought her apples,

blueberries, gooseberries, and currants. He then flew away.

The next morning Vanora was up early and dressed

quickly, afraid to hear the piercing shrieks of the old hag.

She rushed to the back of the cottage to check up on the

chickens that roosted on the roof. She found one egg. She

then went to Odile thinking this time the cow had any milk for

her. Poor Odile—she appeared as if someone had sucked

the air out of her. Vanora went to tie her to a post, but Odile

resisted. And when Vanora moved to milk Odile, the cow

kicked the bucket, sending it flying into the air. It was clear

that Vanora would have to go to the market looking for

someone to give her a cup of milk.

Vanora returned to the cottage and spotted the pot with

the hare stew, untouched. Oh, it looked so tasty. Vanora ran

her fingers around the rim of the pot. She dipped her pinky

into the delicious stew. Then she brought it out slowly. A few

drops ran off her finger. She brought it up to her lips, but

instead of licking the finger she let out a yelp. She crouched

down, covering her head with both hands, protecting it from

piercing claws. “You can’t touch it or taste it!” Crow said

angrily. “Come with me to the market, and we will find you

something to eat,” said crow in a harsh tone.

The weather had lightened up and a gentle wind blew

inland. Vanora’s stomach rumbled like a quake. When she

arrived at the market, she noticed fewer and fewer vendors

were out and more and more buyers gathered at the old

hag’s stall. Vanora spotted the old hag sitting on her father’s

stool with creels filled with the freshest sea catch ever. It

looked like they’d rained from the sky. Vanora couldn’t

imagine the old hag taking a Púcán out to sea or managing

the sails and nets all by herself—then she recalled Seasel

telling that she had been the most powerful witch who

commanded the sea.

 Vanora’s eyes welled with tears at the thought of her

father. Seasel had promised she would see him again. But

what could a blind man with no power do against a powerful

witch . . . even if she were just an old witch for that matter?

She found it odd seen Fodla hiding under her large

shawl—was she not selling her fish? Vanora didn’t want to

concern herself with that because she had come looking for

a cup of milk—nothing else—and it happen that Fodla had

plenty of it and some more. Fodla had a large meal right in

front of her. Vanora guessed six people could feed from it.

“Come child,” called Fodla with a whisper. She poured a

large cup of fresh milk and took a large, white, doughy Blaa

bun and a sizable chunk of brown butter and offered it to

Vanora who, with trembling hands, snatched the bun and

butter from Fodla and stuffed it into her mouth. She took big
gulps of milk. Her belly felt better. The roaring in her

stomach stopped. Thanking Fodla and feeling full and with

more strength, she trudged towards her father’s stall.

“Well if it’fs not the little waif . . . .” The old hag let out a

cackle that reverberated throughout the entire market.

Vanora felt her face burn. She was been called an orphan.

The old hag was right—she was an orphan. And she feared

once the authorities knew she had no family they’d send her

to an orphanage. That thought sent her into despair. Who

could she get to claim her as family? Crow was a bird and

Seasel an old blind man—not your ideal substitutes for

family members. She looked back to Fodla, who had saved

her life and fed her. She looked to the right, where Bold

Calvagh sat silently—her father’s neighbor, friend, and

fishing companion. Calvagh and his wife never had children.

His wife was not fond of them, either. If they came around

their cottage, she threw water at them or chased them with a

broom.

Everyone in the market walked around looking

frightened. And that’s exactly what Ornice wanted—to

spread fear. Suddenly Vanora ducked as a fish was hurled

over her head, then a second, and a third. Then she heard

the old hag’s voice. “Go on, my little waif. Get movin’, clean

them!” She then threw a big creel to Vanora, who crouched

quickly, missed by the big basket by only an inch.

Vanora rushed to do the tedious and painful job of

cleaning the fish. While the villagers began to form a line

waiting for the fish to be cleaned, the old hag was pocketing

handfuls of gold coins. “You! Get goin’!” she shouted,

rushing Vanora.
 Hours had passed by the time Vanora finished cleaning

the fish. The old hag squatted down, counting the gold coins

and displaying the biggest smile of satisfaction across her

toothless mouth.

Vanora’s back ached. The villagers began leaving the

market stalls.

The old hag turned to Vanora. “Go home now,” she

ordered. “Take thifs fifsh and make me a fstew. Yer hare

wafs awful, couldn’t eat it. It fsmelled and tafsted putrid.

Make it good or elfse . . .” she warned Vanora.

What was the old hag talking about? The hare was the

freshest, as were all the ingredients put into the pot to cook

it. Then a thought struck Vanora—Seasel and Crow wouldn’t

let her taste it.

 On her way back to the cottage, Vanora saw Crow

flying towards her. “I was watching you, Milady. I’m glad that

Fodla fed you. Here, take this Angelica herb and throw it into

the pot you use to cook the fish. Do not eat the fish—it’ll

make you sick. And don’t let the old hag see the herb either.

I’ll bring you something to eat later.” Crow flew away.

On her way home, it occurred to Vanora that the old

hag hadn’t touched the hare and claimed it smelled putrid.

Could the hare have been rubbed with this herb before it

was brought to her . . . ?

She hurried to cook the fish as instructed—the thought

of the old hag catching her putting something on her meals

made Vanora’s blood run like ice.

It was late evening when the old hag came home.

Vanora heard her gasping for air—the climb up the cliff with
that bent over body was getting to be too strenuous for the

old hag. She slammed the door behind her.

Vanora had readied a plate and a ladle for the old hag.

The rich aroma of onions, potatoes, fish, and herbs were a

real torture to Vanora, who by late evening was starving.

She couldn’t imagine going much longer without taking a bite

of her own cooking.

The old woman stared at Vanora, who waited quietly in

a corner of the room. The woman then pointed a finger at

Vanora. “Out!” she yelled. Vanora took that as an order and

fled the room.

Upstairs in her room, Vanora went to the window and

found waiting for her a little basket crammed with cooked

fish, potatoes, and a bun. There was also a delectable

blackberry tart, nuts and fruits, and a cup filled with milk.
Vanora ate at such a speed, gorging herself, that she

thought she was going to throw up. Crow fed on berries next

to her without saying a word. He picked a berry with his bill

and popped it into his throat. He went on and on, feeding in

a frenzy that matched Vanora’s.

Satisfied, the two remained silent, deep in thought.

Vanora looked up and saw zillions of stars twinkling in the

sky. The moon, not wanting to be outdone, shone higher and

brighter than anything out there in the universe. Vanora let

out a deep sigh—it seemed that the sky, along with the

moon, the ocean, and the wind, had conjured a

synchronized dance of beauty. The ocean came and went

without a rouse and the wind felt gentle on her face.

Finally Vanora broke the reigning silence. “Crow, why is

it that I can’t eat or taste the food I make?”

 Before he had a chance to answer, they heard a yell

from downstairs. “Vanooora! Come here!” The old woman’s

voice was a blood-curdling scream.

Vanora felt the blood rush from her face and she turned

to Crow. “Whaat—what do I, I do now?” her eyes were big

and fear read all over her trembling body.

“Don’t fear, Milady. Not much she can do as of yet.

We’ll be watching.” With that said, he picked up with his bill

the little basket and flew silently away to sit by the rocks that

lined the edge of the cliff.

Vanora scampered out of her room and climbed down

the stairs. The woman was doubling over, holding her belly.

Green slime was drooling out of her toothless mouth. She

growled, “You fscallywag. Fsome cookin’ you done.

Aaaarrrg!!” She let out deafening yelps. She then brought

her skeletal arms to her head “You’ll pay for thifs!” she

warned. She then vomited more green slime.

Vanora was speechless and didn’t know what to do.

Why was the old hag sick? Had the meal she prepared for

the old hag gotten her sick, making her vomit? Now it was

she who felt sick with nerves, recalling the herb Crow told

her to put in the stew. She dreaded the thought of the old

hag finding out . . . .

Vanora dashed out back to fetch the old hag a cup of

water. She timidly set it at the foot of the old hag and

scurried to the back door, just in case the old hag came after

her. The old hag let out more yelps before kicking the pot

and spilling the stew. She hugged her belly and ran out of

the cottage screaming “Aaaarrrg!!”

 Vanora, trembling like a leaf blown by a windstorm,

rushed to clean the floor. Afterwards she ran back upstairs

and bolted the door behind her. She ran to the window to

see where the old hag had gone. The moon shone down on

the frail, hunched old woman who ran like a mad creature,

her long fingers picking up her skirt, exposing her barefoot,

hairy, goat-like shanks. The wind picked up stronger and all

the calm that was enjoyed sometime before took a turn. The

blue starry sky had turned dark, with ominous clouds

speeding by. The sea started a roar as if millions of rocks

were breaking loose and coming down the mountain. The

waves took on gigantic proportions, with the sea level rising

higher than ever, almost reaching the cliffs, with a fury never

seen before. Vanora tried to shut her window, but the wind
was breaking into the room like a whirlwind demon.

Something was not natural. Was this all Ornice’s doings?

Then wind whirling around, scattered everything around

Vanora’s room. It sounded angry—it was hissing. In an

instant Vanora was being tossed up and down and thrown

sideways. One moment she was in the air upside down with

her arms flailing, trying to hold on to anything, and her legs

kicking in the air; the next she was crashing into a wall. She

tried to stand and run, but the same wind chased her,

dancing around her and trapping her inside the swirl. That

was when she heard it chant, “She’s back with . . . .”—the

same chant she’d heard before. Then, with the same fury it

had started with, the wind left in a hurry. All came to a

deafening calm.
 Vanora, sprawled on the floor, lifted her head, turning to

look around the room—it had been turned topsy-turvy. The

heavy bed had been thrown to the opposite end of the room.

The chest of clothes had its lid ajar and clothes were strewn

everywhere. The little night table had been whirled across

the room and had come to rest upside down in a corner, the

candlesticks and candles knocked to the floor.

Then Vanora heard the fluttering of Crow’s wings and she

let out a sigh of relief. “Ooh, Crow, she’s angry . . . and the

wind brought the familiar chant of ‘she’s back. . . .’”

Crow danced his way to the end of the windowsill and

back, craning his neck to peer into the room. “She’s getting

angrier and more desperate by the day. She’ll try anything,

including breaking the barrier around you and eliminating

those who are protecting you. With that out of her way, in no
time she’ll get you, and we’re very worried . . . ” said Crow,

spreading his tail feathers and puffing his body to appear

larger than his real self.

Vanora shuddered at his words. She rose and sat on the

edge of the bed, her eyes gazing at the floor, chin to her

chest. “What’s protecting me, Crow?” she asked softly.

Crow whispered, “It’s not time yet to let you know, Vanora.

It’s better this way. Now go rest for the night for we have

arduous days ahead.”

Vanora then asked, “Crow, any news of my father?”

“We’re searching for Old Fergal . . . soon we’ll know

what happened to him.” Crow then flew out to his tree.

Vanora, after she picked up the scattered mess the

whirlwind had caused, got into bed. She drifted to sleep

thinking about her father—it filled her with warmth.