| Justine |
| February 1992 Today the world seems like a different place than it did yesterday. I’ve always loved the winters here, but now the sky seems to have dimmed a little. Yesterday Mama and I were calm and safe, secure in our lives and most especially in our magick. But last night Mama got a witch message from Aunt Celine. A seeker had come to “investigate” her library, and he found some dark spells she had written –a weather spell and a spell for bending another’s will, spells Mama says she never even used. But according to the council –the idiot council, Mama calls them –just writing these spells shows a leaning toward dark magick that can’t be tolerated. And Aunt Celine committed what Mama calls the cardinal sin: she argued with the Seeker, tried to make it seem like the spells aren’t all that dangerous. And Aunt Celine was stripped of her powers today. Oh, Goddess, it is such a horrible ceremony, but Mama insisted that we scry to watch it all. She says that I am old enough to see such things, that I have a duty to make myself aware of the abuses of power that are committed in our world. Aunt Celine cried and shook, and when she was finally stripped, she looked like a broken bird: no longer able to fly, only half the person that she was before. Mama says that the council is corrupt and stupid, that they don’t understand the value of knowledge. I don’t know what to believe. I only know that what happened to Celine was terrifying. I can’t image anything she could have done to deserve such a terrible fate. –J.C. June 1997 Today my cottage seems filled by a cloud of sadness. I know that this isn’t a day for sorrow; it should be a day for happy memories, for quiet contemplation and reminiscing. Yet the sorrow comes along unbidden. Today is the fifth anniversary of Mama’s death. It seems so long ago that we lived in this house together, yet I remember so much about her –her intensity, her passion for learning, the way she strove to kindle in me an appreciation for the complexity of the world. And her morality. If they knew the truth of her beliefs, many witches who revere her today would not consider my mother a moral person. Yet her heart was large, her empathy complete. She taught me healing spells and did her utmost to help animals, children, anyone who was vulnerable. She had a strong sense of right and wrong, and she felt that our family had been wronged too many times. I miss her terribly, even five years after her death. I would like to believe that somewhere, wherever her soul is on its journey, she is aware of the work I am doing, and she is proud. Today I stayed away from the library. I did not want to be tempted; it would be so easy to hurt my mother in my nostalgia and my sadness. But tomorrow I will return to my work. I will continue compiling…continue learning. I cannot think of a better gift that I could give to Mama. –J.C. December 2001 Today I found a bit of rock that had a thread of gold running through it. I held it in my hand and closed my eyes and felt its ancient fire warming my hand. I came home, crunching through the snow, and set the rock on my kitchen table. I stoked the fire and made myself some mulled cider. Then we sat together, the rock and I, and it told me its secrets. I knew its true name, the name of the rock and the name of the gold within it. Using the form as described by Davina Heartson, I gently, slowly, patiently coaxed the gold out of the rock. It came to me, like water on fire, and now it sits in a tiny lump in my hand, the rock being empty where it was. It was such a beautiful thing, such a pure power, such a perfect knowledge, that I sat there and wept with it. This is the value of my research. This is why I have gone to such lengths to collect true names. Knowing true names elevates my magick into something different from what most witches have. I was born strong –I’m a Courceau. But the collection of true names I have gives me almost unlimited power over the known ones. Think of what I could do with some particular names. Think of the power I would wield. I could be virtually unstoppable. Then I could avenge my family, all those who have had their power stripped, who have been persecuted, misunderstood, judged by small minded bureaucrats. They didn’t understand who they were dealing with. I will make it my life’s work to teach them. –J. C. In the time I’ve been here, I’ve come to fully appreciate the pristine and harsh beauty of winter. Five years ago it was spring that made me feel alive, the unstoppable power and bursting rawness of life renewed. Now that seems so naïve. For me, winter is the culmination of nature’s beauty, winter that shows the perfection, the bare bones of the world I live in. Today I walked for miles, up to Grandfather’s Knee. The air was sharp and cold, like a knife, and by the time I reached the top, every breath seared my lungs. I felt alive, completely connected to everything around me. The sound of ice cracking in the sun, the rare, startled flight of a bird, the occasional wet drop of snow from a tree limb –all these things filled me, awoke my senses, until I felt almost painfully joyful, painfully ecstatic. I fell to my knees in the sun- softened snow and blessed the Goddess and the God. My entire life felt like a song, a song that was reaching a crescendo, right then. Ahead of me lay a meadow, its snowing surface marked by animals who had come to break through the crust to forage. As I knelt there, I was startled by a flash of dusty white –a winter hare, zigzagging crazily across the meadow, running so incredibly fast that I could hardly follow it with my eyes. It was beautiful, a slightly darker white then the snow, designed to run, it's feet sure and strong. A second later I saw the reason for it's flight a red-tailed hawk, it's wingspan more then four feet, was swooping toward it. In the time it took me to blink, the hawk had swung its feet down and up and was already beating the air with its wings, heading skyward with its prize. I didn't think. There was no time. Instinctively I traced a sigil and cried, "Israthtac! Israthtac!" As if shot, the hawk faltered in midair, one shoulder dipping, its wings beating arrhythmically. I sent the message, "Drop it. Release." And in the next moment the hare was falling like a soft-bodied stone toward the earth. I was already on my feet and running. The hare lay stunned, near death, its eyes wide and yet unseeing. Its dusky fur was streaked with blood from the hawks talons; I felt its labored breathing, its pain, the panic that went beyond fear. It blinked once, twice, and then its life began to ease away. "Sassen," I murmured, not touching it. Its little sides had quit heaving for breath. "Sassen," I said softly, tracing several sigils in the air above it, calling it back. "Sassen." I sang it coaxingly, and then the hare blinked, its eyes taking on a new awareness. It breathed deep, its velvet nose twitching. I watched as it rolled to its feet in a smooth movement and bounded off to the brush. I know that some would say that what I did today is wrong, that it is interfering with nature's will, which should be held sacred. But I believe that as witches we should have the ability to use our own judgement. Nothing I have done today will throw off the balance of the universe: The hawk will catch more prey, the hare will die sooner or later. Both will go on with their lives, unaware of what I've done. Animals are innocent. People never are. -Justine Courceau There is somebody coming. I first became aware of it this morning as I tried to concentrate on my work down in the library. I had laid out the salt, I had lit the candles, and I felt like I had been chanting for hours but to no avail. I wasn't breaking through. My shadow friends seemed hesitant to meet me. It was almost as if they were afraid-of something or somebody. I went upstairs to scry, and there I had my vision. A Seeker, coming here. I had a vague sense of youth, of emotional turmoil. Whoever this Seeker is, I do not fear him. He has his own troubles. He will not sway me from my life's work. On wednesday, I made an amazing break through. I have developed a host of friends on the shadow world-many of them fellow Rowanwands who see the value of my research and are eager to help. One of these friends, an older man who will only give the name Bearnard, brought to me a new and eager associate, a woman who calls herself Maible and who brought with her a wealth of knowledge. Never before have I come across anyone in the living world or the shadow world-who has such an extensive knowledge of true names as this woman. From her I obtained nearly twenty true names that day, and she promised to return with more knowledge, more names. Oh, Goddess, I have only gratitude for this generous woman and her love of knowledge. I wish that I had known her while she was among the living, what a remarkable team we would have been. The Seeker is coming, and once he arrives, I will not be able to continue my research until he is gone. Goddess, give me the courage to remember my objectives and the intelligence to prevent this Seeker from truly learning what I seek. If only Maible could give me the true name of this Seeker....then he would stand no chance against me. -J.C. The Seeker arrived yesterday. I don't know how to describe my reaction-he's an invader, and I should resent his being here, yet he is so...interesting. He is an englishman, young, scarcely even twenty. Yet he carries himself with a confidence, a maturity that makes me think he has great potential. I do sense turmoil in him-whether it is a result of this assignment or a personal problem, I can't say. Still, he is so attractive to me, so stimulating to talk to, I find myself wondering if I could win his heart. Of course, I haven't been able to do any research since I sensed him coming. I've stripped the library of any traces of magick and have performed endless purification rituals to keep him from sensing the taint of the other side. I miss my work and my friends in the shadow world more than I can express, but I can be patient. The Courceaus know much about patience, biding our time, waiting until the right moment to make our intentions known. Goddess, help me to keep my focus and remember that it is my work that is most important-more important than any temporary attraction I might have. If only there was some way to make him understand. If only I could get his true name.... -J.C. It isn't often that someone truly surprises me, but Hunter did this morning. First he surprised me with that ridiculous report to the council and then by running off like a scared rabbit after I kissed him. I don't understand him at all. I know he wants me too -all week he's been looking at me like a lovesick puppy, whether he realized it or not. Did he run just because he's a Seeker and I'm the one being investigated? Granted, I'm sure there are protocols in place; I'm sure it would be frowned upon. But according to whom? The stupid council! I don't acknowledge their dominion over me, so why should they stop me from having Hunter? And I absolutely want to have him. He's so compelling, such a portrait of contrasts. He looks young but acts much older. There's a world-weary air about him, as if he's seen it all and hasn't been able to forget enough of it. And there's tht intriguing scar on his neck, almost like a burn. I want to know the story behind it. He seems reserved, but he's funny, passionate about what he believes in, a worthy adversary, and an equal. He has a deep, smoldering sensuality behind his eyes. I want to see those embers ignite. The one problem is his devotion to the council- was I just imagining it, or is that devotion wavering? Given his age, he can't have been a Seeker long. I;m sure it's not too late to show him what the council really is, how insidious they are, how poisonous. In my family alone they have stripped three women of their powers and that's just within the last fifty years. They're threatened by anyone and anything, and they retaliate far out of proportion. If Hunter understood that, he wouldn't want any part of it. Hunter. He'll be back. He's not the type to leave unfinished business. I want him in a way I haven't wanted a man before. I want him in my bed, in my life, in my magick. Think of it- two strong blood witches, accumulating so much pure, beautiful knowledge. And using it, only occasionally, to strike down those who have wronged us. -J.C. I hate him. He's gone now, and I'm still shaking with fury. I can't believe Hunter Niall just took my life apart. First I fell for him, hard, but couldn't get him, even with a spelled kiss. Then his insulting, asinine, pointless report to the idiot council. Reeducated! I'm more educated then any member of the council! I can't believe Hunter, who had such promise, would be so pedestrian, so shortsighted. What a disappointment-though I still held out hope that he would see my point of view. But today, oh, today I put Hunter on my list- not the list of true names, but the list of people who have wronged me and my family. He is now at the top. How did he learn my true name? I have never written it down. How could he possibly have that knowledge? If someone told it to him, then that person knows it, too. I feel completely exposed. I don't want to move from here, the cottage is perfect. But now I know that at least two people-maybe more-know my true name. How will I ever sleep peacefully again? My house still smells like smoke. Hunter and I performed the spell that would allow the list to be destroyed. Then I burned the list in the fireplace, crying as I watched the flames lick along its edges, making the parchment curl. It was beautiful, and I had worked so hard on it, with the gold leaf and the calligraphy. Hunter stood by, his arms across his chest, that hard chest I had felt. His face was lit by the fire, and the awful thing was that I could tell that part of him regretted destroying something so beautiful. Seeing that on his face was incredibly irritating because it only showed me again how much possibility exists within him, how close he was to being exactly what I needed him to be. I do know this. I haven't seen the last of Hunter Niall, nor he of me. Now I have work to do. -J.C. |