Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 27: Spit, spite and burn

Jewel, Novice of Hecatatia

Demetia is a fat farmwife of a hayseed saint. Her magic is for bumpkins in huts reeking of goat-shit. She's the patroness of barnyard oafs who chant of seeds and sunshine while holding drooling babes off the floor so they aren't gobbled by the pigs.

Demetia has no law against witches. Oh, no; not unless they call themselves witches. And so 'holy sisters', 'forest-mothers' and 'good-wives' set their little magic huts all about the land, taking strings of onions and half-pennies in return for poultices to cure warts, sniffles and drooping penises.

Hard to believe that St. Demetia is sister to Hecatatia, patroness of serious magics. Magic that changes lives. Or ends them, ends them, la, la, la.

I tracked the boy on the road to Persephone; and that by questioning spirits I could scarce keep from devouring my soul or ripping my dress. The wrath of my former coven following me like a storm cloud. I feel Sister Agat and Mother Hemp's shadows on the road behind even now. They hate me, hate me now. So much for sisterhood!

Not that any of it was MY fault. How was I to know of poison in the broth? Damnation, ruin and death seven times seven upon them it was THEIR fault my promised servant was stolen. Stolen! Mine!

I've come to a crossroad with no least idea of where to go next. I sit on the edge of some dreary stone fountain, staring at weary green farmlands. I hate these idiot fields. They mock me, reminding of older times.

My fool of a father could not keep his land. My lunatic of a mother could not stop singing to the moon. He hung himself, she ran into the hills. Screaming, laughing, being a useless idiot. Leaving me with Da's corpse hanging from the rafter, swinging back and forth. Forth and back, back and forth, like a fat ham. Leaving me. Leaving me alone. Leaving me to be a sniffling brat. A brat oh-so-kindly taken on as scullery girl for the big fat farm that swallowed our little croft up like a sow eating its piglets.

I sit on the rim of the fountain and stare at farm fields and I want them to darken. Why won't they darken? They should feel what I feel, and wither away, turn to dust and dead weed. Oh, and the fruit on the trees should turn to sacks of worms. Or wasps? Yes, yes, wasps would be better. And let the milk cows give snake venom. Green liquid that bubbles in the milk pail. And let the pigs devour the babies. Let's have the goats turn to wolves, leaping from the sties hungry and grinning.

I'd do it, if Hecatatia gave me the power. Why doesn't she give me the power? Infernum, maybe she will. Maybe she has. Give it a try.

I grasp my broach of Sainted Hecatatia. No true relic, but it's old and bears her sigil and was thrice-dipped in the baptismal font of her chapel in Pomona. I stand, raise left arm to tell my prayers.

"Death." That's a good beginning. "Blight. Bones and night. Ash and dust and rust and pox and worm, wasp and spit and spite and burn. Ache and spurn and spite and blight and drought and rot-"

A bee all but flies into my mouth. I brush at it; it dodges and buzzes. Behind comes loud clamor, I whirl, find a family of crows now splashing in the font, cawing for the joy of bathing. I snarl, raise arm again and a butterfly slaps my face, floats away satisfied. I snarl curses, not in magical casting but pathetic frustration. Three rabbits now poke their heads up from the grass, whispering to one another, discussing why the lunatic girl is shouting at empty fields and insects. I wonder too.

I lower my arm, release my broach, my determination. So pointless, this useless rage. Useless, useless. The ultimate curse word, fouler than fuck or Infernum or a thousand citations to Lucif's mother's crotch. Nothing is worse, is more obscene, than useless.