The Ritual
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She
had been raised by two kindly old midwives. Since her mother had
died in childbirth, and no father or relatives alive, an unknown to
the church, there were simply none to care for her. The midwives kept
her, a ward, a daughter, new life to the dark and foreboding woodland
cottage they called home. They named her simply, Pariah. |
To
the mirrored reflections of the women in town, she had become a
threat. "How could this child have all the gifts of creation
unless she was no midwife, but a witch instead?" Good
Witch,
bad witch, it didn't matter, the word witch made sense of it all.
Secretly, the jealous leading ladies of the town made their plan.
The
next day a leading town father brought a homely looking, sickly
child to see Pariah. The father, an elder in the town dearly loved
the child. However, the step-mother resented the burdensome, sickly
child. It was a blot on her social standing and a barrier to the
money she would inherit. There were various vague complaints written
in a woman's hand on a scrap of paper. Pariah examined the child
without noting malady or malaise, prescribed fresh air and frivolity
and sent them on their way. The next day the child was found dead in
her sleep. As word spread through the town, tempers flared;
repeatedly the word witch was used. The town dispatched an armed
force to hang the witch. They searched and searched without reward.
As
a priceless jewel encased by the vulgarities of nature, so it was
with Pariah. Nature in her purest form changed the forest so no
townspeople could ever find her; brambles and briars surrounded the
cottage. Any townsmen or hunters that came too close faced angry
packs of wolves or rampaging bear.
For
Pariah, research in magical arts filled the solitude. It is said
that she found the secrets of the universe in a single book, a gift
from her father. Nature provided her wants in life. The book provided
a means to find the answers in life. It was within this book that the
ritual begin. At first it was simply to obtain information, the root
of the cause of the dispersions lodged against her. She prepared the
room just as her father had written. Red candles were placed to form
a pentacle. A small cauldron received the proper amounts of
Monkshood, essence of lilac, hemlock and goldenrod, the gentle glow
of a black candle warmed the mixture and began the liquefaction
process. Within the pentagram a solitary mirror was placed. The
outside circle of the ring was carefully covered with salt to keep
unwanted spirits at bay. Slowly she poured the elixir from the
cauldron onto the mirror. It ran along the glass in a mercurial flow,
glowing softly, reflected the light of the blue moon. She bowed to
the elements, earth, wind, fire and air, calling each by names known
only to those true practioner's of the craft. Names I will not repeat
here. As she began the incantation, she became aware of certain
demons loitering outside the circle. To leave the circle now would
mean utter loss of self, both body and soul. The words echoed through
the room, it was a moment lost in time where the laws of the universe
no longer applied. Time itself had no meaning. Within the mirror
there was utter darkness. No light reflected, no image seen. The
blackness began to fade to grayish shadows, like a horrifying
nightmare that lingers in our consciousness without form or
recognition. As the shadows took shape, she knew what had happened,
within the mirror stood the spirit of a sickly girl, murdered for the
elevation of social standing. Poisoned to obscure a threat to future
wealth. Pariah began to delve deeper. The stepmother was plainly in
view and yet obscured by the demons that plagued her blackened soul.
Pariah rubbed her eye, there was a strange watery sensation on her
cheeks. It was a sensation she hadn't known until today. She was
crying. There must be retribution for this callous act, but what?
Pariah was unable to cause harm to anyone or anything knowingly, it
was simply against the Wiccan teachings.
She
closed her eyes and asked for guidance. The pages of grimoire began
to turn rapidly stopping on a page inscribed in blood. She smiled
sweetly, "Perfect," and began the incantation. It would be
the ultimate act of retribution that the entire town would share. As
she finished the incantation, the mirror glowed brightly for just a
moment then disappeared completely. As Shakespeare aptly wrote, "The
spell is cast, the cruel is done, time to eat and beat the drum, the
charm's wound up, now look inside, who does what, who stays alive."
The
townspeople began to change that day. Lunacy was rampant, as were
the suicides that always took place near a mirror. The doctors
untouched by the rampaging illness were baffled. People became
disheveled in appearance, withdrawn and unsociable. A poor beggar,
thief and murderer was found on the church steps begging for
forgiveness, all the time ranting about mirrors. Mirrors that showed
every horrific act he had every committed. That was the simple genius
of the spell. The ultimate act of retribution for a society that
based its values in the reflections of leaden glass. For those who
lived did so by never looking at their reflection again. For those
who died, the mirrors were covered with black cloth. A tradition that
continued to this day.
For
Pariah, her solitude was lightened by the frequent visits of the
little girl she befriended within a looking glass, a little girl now
free to explore the reflections of the universe. Pariah lived happily
within the wood, sheltered from the cruel and injust we call
humanity, protected within her haven by the forces of nature, the
elements and a single book.
Two hundred years later, the town is gone, as are the wolves and bear, but there is still an area of the wood know as dead man's thicket, a truly haunted area that no man, woman or child dares enter. ©mj heckel
(Original Artwork, "Ritual" is used with permission of the artist, Dorian Cleavenger)
Original story, "Ritual" is used with permission of the author, M.J. Heckel
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