The Knowing One

Prologue

1944

SEAGULL cries welcomed the dusk as waves rose and fell upon the surface of the Gulf Sea, each one coming forth to kiss the land before sauntering back to its salty home. Light had just began to give way to darkness as the birds landed upon the sand of the Florida coast line, happily taking part in the final meal of the day. As the Sun began to sink beneath the horizon, its golden rays glinting off the water and slowly receding off the beach, an old woman stood between land, sea, and sky. In her right hand, she held a staff of driftwood, bleached nearly as white as her hair by the sun, and adorned with many colorful shells at its twisted and gnarled head, and in the left was as much sand from the shoreline as she could carry, over which sacred words had been spoken for nearly an hour. Simple clothes of light fabric fit loosely over her back and arms, gently flowing with her every move, while an ornate seashell necklace hung closely to her neck. Her long hair curled into a loose bun, gently held in place with an old fishing net, which also lay on her shoulders. Her gray eyes fixed themselves upon the failing light, patiently watching for a holy sign that would tell her she could begin her work. Her grip on her staff tightened. She had waited many years, wading into the waters each day to watch for a sign that her spell would be accepted. Her old body had time yet though, and she would not give up.

Her gaze remained fixed upon the setting Sun, as it dipped further beyond the horizon. If she looked away for even a second, if she so much as blinked at the wrong moment, she could miss it. The last remnants of orange light faded away, and she held her breath in anticipation. As she watched, the crest of the Sun nearly fell beyond view, but not before the brilliant orange flashed momentarily green, scattering its lights across the horizon. She let out a sigh of relief, her years of waiting finally over. She raised her left hand, the wind rising to meet her work, and began gently releasing the sand, watching as each grain was carried up and out by the wind as she whispered her spell once more, reminding the grains of their work. Her eyes closed as she felt the power go out from her, calling by the beating of her heart the spirits she had come to know so well. With the last grain released, she gave her thanks for this most fortuitous moment before wading back to the shoreline and into her shack.

Darkness overtook the cove as the witch laid upon her bed, closing her eyes. She knew well what would come of her work, a result of her deep connection with the spirits of the world around her. She felt overcome with both grief and joy. She would not see the fruition of her work for nineteen years' time, but she knew well the virtue of patience. For now, she rested, falling into a deep sleep, her dreams revealing somber visions of a far-off place, where wheat grew in abundance, and a new mother lay dying beneath a willow tree.