WEEK 3

VANORA SEES THE WITCH’S POWER

Vanora quickly slid the heavy iron latch on the door. She

stopped for a second to catch her breath. With her back

against the door, she heard the woman’s hissing voice call

out “open up the door or else . . . .” Vanora felt she was no

match for a woman who could move the earth with her

fingers and, not wanting to find out what “or else” meant, she

slid back the latch and opened the door.

The old hag stormed right in, shoving Vanora to the side

and knocking her to the ground. The old woman stopped in

the middle of the room and turned around, deliberately

inspecting every corner. She mumbled, “Hmm . . . jufst afs I

left it. It’ll do.” She continued mumbling what were now
unintelligible hissing sounds. She nodded and sucked her

breath. “Would be fine.”

The old hag shook the dampness off her skirt. She then

kicked off her boots lined in fox fur and reached down to

ignite the fire that had gone out—the fire that Vanora’s father

had always kept going to keep warm on cold nights and

damp days. Vanora stared at the woman’s body. She saw

callused, dirty small feet and toenails eaten by fungus. The

big toes sported tufts of coarse hairs that didn’t stop but ran

up the woman’s legs. The woman’s body, hunched and

skeletal, looked like she was either very sick or starving. She

was nothing like the women in the village, who were robust

and had milky completions, rosy cheeks, and tresses the

color of a crimson sun.

 The old hag blew the fire a few times and called to Vanora

to bring some more logs. Vanora could only carry one at a

time, for they were heavy. She placed them near the old hag

who lifted them as if they were made of straw and threw

them into the fire. She grabbed a poker then stopped. She

threw the poker to the side and instead moved her hands in

a wave motion while under her breath she recited mysterious

words. In an instant the fire ignited with a boom, like an

explosion, sending Vanora scurrying in terror to a corner of

the room. Vanora’s heart was thumping so loud she was

afraid the old hag could hear it, but the old hag, with her

arms outstretched towards the fire and fingers moving like

spider legs crawling on a web, continued the incantations.

She appeared to be in a deep trance.

Vanora held her breath.

 The old hag suddenly turned and fixed her eyes on

Vanora. The woman crooked a finger and called, “Come

here.” Vanora felt her legs weak, she felt she was going to

faint as she moved toward the old hag.

“We need food to help our belly. What yer waitin’ for? Get

goin’!”

Vanora rushed to bring her a plate of fish, potatoes, roots,

and herbs from a pot that hung from a hob in the fireplace.

Vanora and her father ate simple and filling foods. They had

greens and herbs from a small garden and fresh water from

a well. The chickens in the coop over the kitchen’s roof

provided them with daily eggs. A cow in the back of the

house gave them milk that they used to make cheese and

churn butter. Meats were plentiful—the forest abounded with

rabbits, hares, and deer, and the sea offered them an

abundance of birds and fish.

The old hag ate in silence. She heard the woman chew

like a cow chews on cud—her tongue pressed the food

against her palate. Vanora didn’t have an appetite and left

her meal on the plate untouched. The old hag left no morsel

on her plate. She ran her fingers around its rim and sucked

them afterwards with a loud s l u r r p p. Vanora watched in

disgust as the woman wiped her hands on her dirt-stained

black skirt. She then turned to Vanora’s plate, and without

any formalities she snatched it right out from under Vanora

and moved to attack the food as if she’d never eaten a meal

in her life.
 After the meal the woman sat watching the fire and

humming inaudible words. She then closed her eyes. Vanora

saw this as her opportunity to scurry out of the room.

She tiptoed up the wooden staircase to her bedroom. The

last thing she wanted was for the old hag to wake up and

start hollering. Inside the room she dashed to the window

looking for Crow. She felt the wind come in softly, bringing

with it a strange sound. It began whistling softly, then it got

closer, and closer, and then Vanora heard it: “She’s back.

She’s back.” Vanora jumped away from the window, for

she’d never before heard voices carried by the wind—and so

close. Vanora pondered as to who was back.

Vanora’s bedroom was small but cozy. Placed against a

wall and centered was the bed, carved of dark wood. On top

was a mattress and pillows stuffed with cotton grass. A

loomed wool blanket covered the bed. Next to the bed there

was a little night table with a candlestick, and at the foot of

the bed sat a large trunk with her essential clothes.

The wind had ceased when Vanora went back to the

window looking for Crow. He’d promised her to bring news of

her father, but he’d been gone too long. Where did he go?

She was sure Crow, who could fly long distances, and his

cousins the ravens, who could soar very high up in the skies,

would have news of her father. But she mulled over . . . why

such a delay? She wiped a tear away with her forearm. She

felt scared and alone. Her life had turned dark and ugly.

What had she done to deserve her father’s abandonment?

She was wrapped in her thoughts when she heard a peck

on the window. She jumped out of bed and dashed to open

the shutters.
 “Hello, Milady” said Crow, bowing his head. That always

brought out a giggle from Vanora. He was a jester, but this

time Vanora had to no time to laugh.

“Crow, where is my father? Do you have news of him?”

She then whispered, “She’s here and says she’s here to

stay— .”

Crow fluffed his feathers. When something was awry he

didn’t shiver like people, but his entire body would change to

a silvery black and he’d make a flicking sound with his tail.

Crow brought news not of her father but of the old hag. He

jumped inside the window and perched on Vanora’s

shoulder. He said, “Milady, I flew miles and days and

contacted friend and foe, and I was told cautionary tales

about that old hag—she’s Ornice in flesh and blood. I’m

afraid dark days are about to come to the island.” He clucked

his bill. His round crystal eyes, the color of amber, had a

gleam. “But Milady, not for long—for I beckoned her match—

Ulliac . . . . Now go rest and I’ll keep watch. Just leave the

window a crack open in case I have to fly out.” She did what

was told as she wiped away one more tear. Minutes later

she was sound sleep.

Vanora dreamt of her father back in the cottage. She

dreamt of a mother she never knew. She dreamt of spring

and summer flowers. The bell-shaped fuchsias and

foxgloves and the blue little sheep’s bits that grew by the

cliff, and the pink, blue, mauve little milkwort flowers. She

remembered her father warning her not to pick them, for it

was the fairies who used them for making soap. She dreamt

of walking through the path bordered with green grass, and

clinging to the stony ground were little white star-shaped

flowers of St. Patrick’s cabbage. When she was younger she

thought St. Patrick ate them thinking they’re cabbages. It

was just a bittersweet dream, for in it nothing had changed

for Vanora.

She woke up to the rustle of wings. It was Crow. “Vanora,

Milady, I sense the old hag is coming.” With that he took off

flying.

Vanora’s heart jumped. Her body tensed and a cold sweat

ran through her. She’d locked her door, but she couldn’t tell

what the old hag would do. Pretending to sleep, with one eye

half closed, Vanora saw mist crawl under the door. The door

opened silently. The old hag’s steps were as light as those of

fairies. Vanora caught her inspecting the room. She prayed

the woman wouldn’t know Crow had been in. The woman

walked over to the open window and stared absently at the

sea. A spray of salty water hit her face. Vanora thought that

the ocean had risen above the cliff to slap her face—but who

dared to slap its queen? The hag swiped her hand across

her face and cursed. Vanora remained still, her eyes shut

tight.

The woman turned around and came closer to Vanora’s

bed. She stood fixing her gaze on her. She then muttered,

“Fshe’ll have to go . . . umm . . . .” The woman left the same

way she came in.

Vanora waited a few minutes then sat straight up in her

bed. She turned her eyes to the door that remained locked

from the inside. It was true . . . the old hag was—the mere

thought chilled her body—she was the woman who the

entire village had talked about for so long, and now she was
back. Vanora felt the world closing in, and she had no one to

help her.

The morning sun flooded Vanora’s room. She got up and

threw on her petticoat and stealthy went down the wooden

staircase. She found the fire with fresh logs, but there was

no sign of the old hag. Vanora rushed through the back door,

looking around to see if anything had changed now that she

knew who the old hag was.

All had remained the same: the cow was chewing her cud,

and the chickens cackled unaware of the danger around

them.

She climbed up a ladder to the coop and retrieved one egg.

She found it strange the chicken hadn’t laid the usual

amount.
 She returned to the kitchen and boiled the egg, then ate

it with an old piece of stale bread before leaving for the

market—she didn’t know if she was going to find anything

since the earthquake and giant waved had taken a chunk of

its stalls. She brought her shawl around her head and

shoulders as she walked along the path. She looked out

towards the cliffs flanking the sea—the birds were silent. In

the mornings there were usually raucous calls from the birds

of the island that nested on its cliffs.

Vanora called out to Crow. “Ouch!” she cried when he

landed on her shoulder. Crow was a beautiful, large bird with

a bill the color of black onyx. His talons were covered with

shiny soft skin, unlike those scaly feet of other birds. At times

his talons dug a bit too deep into Vanora’s skin, making her

shriek in pain.
 “Shush, Milady,” said Crow, dismissing her pain. “Let

me tell you what I learned. Yes, she’s back with a fury to

destroy those who sent her away when she was once young

and beautiful.” Vanora had heard rumors that out of jealousy

she had blinded a powerful wizard who had eyes the color of

the arctic sea. There was no real word on what had

happened to him afterward—tongues said he’d gone into

exile to a faraway land, never to be seen again.

Vanora, with Crow still perched on her shoulder, arrived

at the village’s market to find the villagers had set up with

new stalls. “The market is not as crowded as before and

there are so few vendors . . .” she said.

Crow leaned his head and whispered into her ear, “People

know who she is and they’re scared. And as for the few

sellers . . . who dares to outsell Ornice without her putting a

curse on the daring soul? Everyone knows it’s she who

brought the bad weather, and the sea has turned violent and

angrier, taking to its depths more fishing currachs and

Púcáns. Even the cows have stopped giving milk.” He then

flew away, just before Vanora entered the market.

A sinking feeling crept in Vanora’s body as she moved

around the fish stalls. She imagined the old hag sitting in her

father’s stall, grinning with satisfaction. Her steps became

shorter and shorter. Her legs felt like lead. She bit her dried

and cracked lips as she came closer to her father’s stall. A

lot of stalls were vacant. The villagers who dared to come to

market to buy were busy doing their pickings at Old Fergal’s

stall, occupied now by the old hag.

The old woman lifted her head and frowned at the sight of

Vanora. “Come here, girl” she made a hissing sound

showing her impatience. “Get on in and help!” Vanora saw

that finger with its gnarled joints. She knew of that pointed

nail and those emaciated hands. That alone sent her

trembling towards the woman. How could she forget the

woman’s hand stirring the ground and breaking the earth, or

lighting a fire with an explosion, or creating fog . . . . Vanora

was not going to make her do any of those things.

Vanora reached the stall and paused silently, waiting for

the woman to speak. “Girl, take the fifsih from the creel and

fstart cleaning them.” She slid a dagger from a side pocket

and flung it to Vanora, who jumped back in horror as the

dagger went swiftly through the air and landed a foot away

from her, stabbing the ground. Trembling, she bent down to

pull the sharp dagger from the ground and began diligently

to clean the fish. She ran the dagger from the fish’s tail to the
head, removing the scales. Her hands bled when they ran

into the needle-like sharp fins. She carried on the work in

silence, interrupted only by the clinking of the gold coins in

the woman’s full pockets and the voices of the villagers

thanking the woman before scurrying away.

The day was coming to an end, making Vanora felt

melancholic. It was exactly at this time that she usually had

dinner with her father at home. It was also a time when a

neighbor would stop by and share a meal of potato cakes,

cabbage kale, and rabbit potage by the warm fire. Later in

the evening other neighbors would come by to enjoy hearing

tales about the fairies, the witches, the apparitions, and

hauntings back in the forest told by the village storyteller—a

woman everyone called the Mistress Storyteller--and a close

friend of Crow. Then there would be music and a bit of

dancing once her father took to playing the fiddle, filling the

air with merriment.

Vanora sighed deeply when she looked down at her cut

and bloody fingers. Her body ached, for she’d cleaned a full

creel of fish. She thought about her father—he wouldn’t have

allowed her to do a man’s job . . . . By day’s end the fish stall

was bare and the woman’s pocket bulging.

“Yer dinner, girl. Go and cook it,” she said as she threw a

fish at Vanora’s foot.

The market, now emptied, was shrouded in shadows. The

ocean was pushing fiercely closer to shore. Vanora, alone

and disheartened, started the mile-long trek back home. She

was mindful to keep away from the cliffs that for many had

been their end. The moon, partially covered by clouds,

shone on the guillemots and puffins sitting on patches of

grass nearing the cliffs.

Vanora was listening to the loud gurgling of the skylarks

soaring above the sky when a soft wind blew closer,

caressing her face. Then, she heard it murmuring: “ She’s

back. She’s back to take revenge on those who shunned

her.” Vanora halted, then turned quickly to see who was

whispering. There was no one behind her. Terrified, she

brought her shawl around her head and quickened her

steps.

Inside the cottage the fire was going, silence reigned in.

Vanora quickly prepared a simple fish stew for the woman

and left the pot by the fire for the woman to serve herself.

She then ran up to her room where she found Crow waiting

by the window.
 “Milady, Seasel is waiting for us tonight, and he has

something to give you. We have to make sure that Ornice

doesn’t see us together. If she grows suspicious of me, I will

stop being a simple bird . . . . ” Crow stretched his neck to

clean an underbelly feather. He then turned and said, “At

midnight you’ll hear the wind carrying the sound of a flute.

It’s Queen Fairy alerting us to prepare.”

“And the old hag?”

“Milady, she’ll be fast asleep. Hush now! She’s coming.”

Crow flew out with a soft fluttering of wings.

It was just in time he left. Vanora rushed to get into her

bed and again pretended to sleep as she watched again the

smoke creep under the door. The door opened just as

before.
 Inside the room, the old hag moved around in an

unhurried manner, inspecting every corner. Vanora felt her

heart beat heavily—she realized she had left the window a

crack open and carried by the air was a bird’s downy

underbelly feather.

Vanora smelled the stench of the old woman’s breath as

she neared her bed. Suddenly the old hag’s head jerked

back in disgust. She spun around and left in a hurry. This left

Vanora befuddled. What prompted the old hag to run out of

the room? She had not let out any stinking breezer.

Vanora didn’t know how long she’d waited for the signal

that came with the wind carrying the sound of a flute. Crow

flew into the room without a sound, as if his wings were

those of a butterfly. Vanora was prepared. She’d gone to

bed all dressed.

 Vanora hopped down from the bed and tiptoed towards

the door to slide off the lock, but the door wouldn’t open. She

pulled once, twice, before she realized the woman had

trapped her inside the bedroom. Stricken with fear, she

turned to Crow for answers.

“Come Milady, no time to waste,” called Crow.

Vanora found hanging from the window a long ladder

made of straw rope that reached to the ground. She lifted

her petticoat and rapidly climbed down. It was midnight when

the two began the long hike up the mountain to old Seasel’s

cottage hidden deep in a forest now blanketed in fog. Had it

not been for the fat moon’s shaft of light filtering through a

dense canopy, Vanora and Crow would have found it harder

finding their way to Seasel’s place. After a long and arduous

climb they reached the forest—home to the fairies’ mounds

and other mysterious creatures.

Vanora began to tire, but Crow insisted they keep moving

at a faster pace. She questioned his urgency. “Crow, does

the old seer have news of my father?” Just thinking about

her father made Vanora fasten her steps. To Vanora it felt as

if he had been gone years, but in reality it had been only

days since the time the old hag had taken his place.

Vanora and Crow reached the cottage that sat in the

middle of a forest clearing. Vanora turned to Crow and

asked, “Do little people live here?”

“Seasel is not little, nor is he your typical blind man,” he

grunted.

The place was a short and portly stone cottage with a

crooked chimney that blew white puffs of smoke. Vanora,

through a small window, caught sight of a lit candle, and

nearby was a man sitting by the fire’s warmth.

Vanora found the door halfway open. “No time to waste,

my dear,” called out Seasel from where he was sitting.

“Come. Come and have a seat, child.” He pointed to a

wooden stool nearby. He was dressed all in white. On his lap

was an ash-wood wand. Vanora stared at him in awe. She

didn’t expect him to be this tall. He was imposingly tall and

thin. His hair, like liquid silver, shone from the light of the fire.

His long beard, reaching to his chest, matched the silver of

this head.

Crow invited himself to a seat—his was a windowsill

where he perched contentedly. The silence in the room was

interrupted by the sporadic crackling of sparks from the fire.

Crow, feeling relaxed, clapped his bill and began primping

himself.

Seasel spoke softly. “Vanora, I called you because you’re

in grave danger. Ornice is back. Old, bitter, angry, and more

vengeful than ever to finish off those who cast her away.”

Seasel kept his eyes closed. He didn’t want anyone to look

into those white, cloudy, vitreous eyeballs. “My child, listen to

what I’m about to tell you . . . .” Seasel wetted his lips and

began. “Once upon a time, Ornice was a very beautiful and

powerful witch who reigned over the sea of Citairda and the

coast of Aludrok. Her powers seemed unmatched except for

those of one woman who was equally or I’d say more

beautiful and could turn Ornice into ashes if she wanted to,

but this woman was too high and mighty to deal with a

witch—her name was Ulliac and she was an enchantress

who ruled over the lands of Davanor, Rathdrinagh and

Mottar. Her power came from a legion of thousands of fairies

unmatched by any living man. In the same land of the

enchantress and fairies there lived a fair maiden by the

name of Fridora . . . .” Vanora’s eye grew big and her mouth

opened to speak. Seasel ignored her and continued, “Her

hair was like a golden sun, and her eyes the blue of the sky,

and her skin as fair as ivory. Fridora was filled with gaiety.

She played the flute and the harp and danced like no other

maiden. She was the king’s favorite, and she was chosen to

be married to the king’s youngest son, but Fridora had eyes

only for a fisherman she had saved during a storm provoked

by the powerful and beautiful witch named Ornice.” Seasel

paused to stir the fire. “Ornice had come to these shores

from a faraway land. Her power she drew from the sea. She
ruled fearlessly, taking what she wanted from mortals,

wizards, kings, and the like. Everyone who looked into her

dreamy green feline-like eyes fell under her spell. Ornice felt

she had no rivals, for she thought herself to be the most

beautiful woman in the land.” Seasel took a deep breath.

The sparks from the fire enveloped the entire room in soft

hues of amber. He then rose slowly and walked to a pot by

the fire. His hands moved with dexterity as if he could see as

he picked up the pot of tea. He reached into a cupboard and

brought out two cups.

Vanora had many questions. For starters: how could this

very tall man walk around a squatty room without having to

stoop down? And how could Old Seasel, a lone and blind

man, keep such a tidy place by himself? And how could he

keep the forged iron wick holders lit on the walls? Then she
noticed how everything seemed different upon entering the

cottage, from the shape of the room that appeared to

elongate to the dark stony walls that seemed to expand out.

Seasel poured Vanora a cup of tea made from the blue

flowers of flax. He recited a few words over it before handing

it to Vanora, who began sipping the brew slowly, tasting its

spicy flavor. Her eyes went to the fireplace, where she saw

hanging to dry near the mantel a bundle of bluish-red petals

of the figwort plant. She’d once heard the villagers talk about

this plant having protective powers from evil . . . but why did

Seasel need such a plant if he was a seer capable of seeing

everything ahead? This thought confounded her.

Seasel took a long sip from his cup. “As I was saying,” he

started. He took another sip of his brew. “Back in that land

there lived a powerful wizard who was in love with Ulliac and
whom Ornice wanted for herself. You see, child, she, Ornice,

was capricious, and what she wanted she took and no one

dared to contradict her. But this wizard didn’t want her, so

when he rejected her, Ornice went into a rage, commanding

the seas to rise and come to land, destroying the places

where Ulliac reigned. Many died. Those who weren’t swept

away by the sea starved because the land had flooded,

becoming useless for planting. It was a blow to Ulliac the

enchantress and queen of these lands. What was Ulliac to

do? She convened a council of wizards and enchantresses

of all the lands to ask for advice to deal with Ornice. The

council was not prepared to meet with the powers of Ornice.

Ulliac took this defeat quietly and kept solace by rebuilding

the lands she ruled. Then came Fridora . . . .”

 Vanora’s eyes grew big. “Er, er, you mean my mother?

What does she have to do with Ornice?”

Seasel stirred the fire and flames shot high. Vanora

recoiled back on her seat. It brought memories of Ornice

lighting the fire at home. “You see, my dear, your mother

Fridora was Ulliac’s beloved younger sister. . . .”

Vanora gasped. She looked at Crow, who had his

attention to Seasel. “I- is it true?” Vanora asked him. Crow

nodded a yes.

She turned to look at Seasel. “You mean . . . am I . . . ?”

She couldn’t bring herself to ask if she was half enchantress.

It was a scary thought and too much to take in for a night.

“What does Ornice want with me now considering that my

mother has vanished?” Then it hit Vanora hard. “I know my

mother disappeared at sea never to be found, and now my

father . . . does she have anything to do with their

disappearances?” Vanora’s voice rose as she spoke, and

her arms hung to her sides with her hands folded into fists.

Seasel sensed Vanora’s indignation. “Child, give us some

time, we’ll find your father. Now we have more pressing

business, and that is stopping Ornice from taking you

because you have something she wants more than anything

else in the world.” With that said, Seasel signaled to Crow to

come near. Crow flew to Seasel’s shoulder. Vanora waited,

but all she heard were whispers. Then she heard Seasel

sigh loudly and saw a smile curve his lips.

“My dear child, now you know who that old hag is. As for

why she came to your house, it’s better that you don’t have

any knowledge for the moment of what you have, or what

she wants from you to avoid her getting it out of you by

trickery or threat—.”

Something startled Crow, his feathers ruffled. “Hurry,

Milady we must leave this instant!”

Seasel took his wand and swished it around Vanora. He

then walked to a pot growing blue flowers and broke one.

“Here, my child, hold this heliotrope. It’ll make you invisible

to the outside world, and this will protect you . . . .” He hung

a little flower garland around Vanora’s neck.

The moon had disappeared and the forest was covered in

semi-darkness when they left Seasel’s place. On the way

home, Vanora began to hear strange sounds rising from the

ground behind her. Her eyes grew bigger when she saw that

the trees and plants that anchored their way were huddling

together, erasing the footprints behind them.

 Crow, perched on her shoulder, whispered urgently,

“Hurry Milady, faster. I sense danger.”