The Last Witch in Space

The Fantasy

The sky was a starless blanket tucked in too tightly. It pressed inwards, suffocating and hot, despite the absence of the sun. The moon had vanished too, perhaps fearful of what was about to come.

I wasn't afraid. We had been preparing for tonight for the past twelve moon cycles, my family and I. The sky boded ill, but so long as we were the ones spreading wickedness across the land, it was nothing to make my heart stutter.

Clemency had none of my confidence. "They've all gone," she whispered to me as we walked between shadowy fronds, our torches casting sinister shapes on the winding path ahead. She gestured to the empty sky. "This isn't right, Faith. We should go back to our beds. Tonight is wrong."

"Calm down, Clem. Darkness is the shroud of magic. This is a perfect night for witching, and what are we?" I asked, trying to adopt the patronising tone of our teacher, Ms Raymont, when she asked questions she knew we all knew the answer to.

'Witches," Clemency replied, her own voice begrudging. She rubbed at the black star I had inked onto her hand only a few minutes before, the action subconscious. She didn't want to be here. She didn't want to be a part of this. Not while she feared what would happen if we were caught.

I didn't call her on it. She might hate what we were, but that didn't mean she could change it. The Feys were twelve generations of witch blood. It ran so thickly in our veins that the only way to get it out would be to bleed to death. My cousin was a witch, whether she wanted to be or not.

"This is the place," our grandmother said as she came to a stop a few metres ahead of us.

I glanced around, wondering how she could be so sure. Even with the light from our torches, I had trouble seeing my own boots on the path beneath me, let alone our location.

Grandmother took in a deep breath, tasting the air, checking its purity, before expelling it in a noisy exhalation.

"Adopt the formation," she ordered. There were eleven of us in total, all women of the Fey line. We took the shape of the pentagram, my grandmother in the centre, and trained our torches on her as she had taught us.

The light's illumination was stark: it highlighted the creases in my grandmother's well-lived face; it cast shadows in the hollows hunger and work had made in her cheeks; it made her long white hair glow like liquid silver, pooling down her back. It also bounced off the golden sceptre she held in her right hand, the sceptre twelve generations of Fey women had fought, tooth, nail and blood, to keep secret. It was a relic more valuable than the lives of ten of the women here. Without it, we were nothing.

We were arranged in age order, starting at the northern point. I was stood at the left point of the star. Clem, a month younger, was diagonally in front of me. She was illuminated by the path of my torch and I could see the slight tremors that ran through her thin frame. The black cloaks were had shrouded ourselves in - both for ceremony and subterfuge - were little defence agains the chill air, but I sensed her quaking was caused as much by fear as the cold. I wished I could put a hand on her arm to comfort her, but she was just beyond my reach. The ceremony was about to begin and I could not leave my position. One wrong step could destroy moons of planning.

We needed this ceremony to replenish our magic and to maintain our secrecy. If our magic waned, we would weaken and die like flowers robed of sunlight. If we were discovered, we would be rooted out and killed, unsightly weeds torn from a prize garden. We were not welcome here, but we persisted stubbornly in our existence, and told no one what we were. Even Bella didn't know where I went after I kissed her goodbye each afternoon. Love and trust were types of magic that didn't always overlap.

Grandmother beat the ground with the sceptre. Five times, for the points of our star, then five times more, for the rest of the coven. Then once again, for herself.

"Hecate," the name was a curse and a croon, a sin and a song, a lover's caress and an executioners blade. Hecate was magic and power and glory, but she was also the swift wings of death, destruction and chaos.

A shiver ran down my spine. I could see nothing but my grandmother, the sceptre, and the lights across from me. I knew my mother would be behind one of them, Clemency's behind another, along with her two older sisters. I knew they would all be feeling the same thrill of anticipation, the same sense of belonging and unity. This was where I felt truly myself, but it was a fantasy that could never last.

"Hecate, hear our call," my grandmother continued. "Your children thank you for your protection, and entreat you to extend it. In payment, we offer up our blood in sacrifice." Even though I knew what was coming, my stomach still twisted as my grandmother brought the sceptre to her frail, torch-lit skin, and ran its pointed tip along the length of her forearm.

Crimson blood spurted from her veins, falling down into the darkness at her feet.

We were close, so close, to completing the ritual. A few more words, the passing of the sceptre, and it would be done. We would return to full strength.

My gaze moved back to Clemency, to see if she had relaxed now that we were almost there. But the sight of the blood must have tipped the balance of her nerves. She swayed on the spot, then toppled out of formation.