My Line
The rise of jackdaws in the yard coincided with the weather turning cold and the trees being painted red and yellow. The seasons were always there, and she had always been tied to their changes. The rain painted the landscape brighter. She watched a jackdaw shake itself on top of the lamppost, then fly off.
Her contract with the land was solid. She had inherited it from her mother, her mother’s mother, and so on, down the line. As far as memory served, Baynes had always been here in the remote village at the end of the coastline. The line always had daughters.
She was one of those daughters, carrying the future inside her belly. She tied her hand over her stomach, knowing what the jackdaw had told her. There would be death, and then there would be birth. So it always had been.
The rise of new Baynes would always be a terror to those who thought houses needed nailing down. Houses that were to be built on the highest point of the town to watch over the people, never to mingle as the Baynes did.
She and her kind were made for the people and the sorrows their hearts knew here and now. Her daughter would know how to soothe those ailments as she had learned. But before that, the wise man with his weapons and words would have to be banished.
She drew her fingers around the ginger tea, steaming in its cup, and waited for the rain to bring the beast forth.
And there he was, the man, dressed in all black. He was making his way to her house. The house of the illegitimate child. The house that never bore husbands, fathers, and sons. So the story was, and so it would ever be.
The ground shook as he stepped in through the gate. The man clutched his nail that held people and their souls in place. It was not her nail. Never had been. The jackdaws and the trees they possessed were her delegation and cathedral, her might and her destiny.
She lowered her cup onto the desk before the door knocker sounded.
The time from the kitchen to the front door was slow. The child of hers pressed against her back and bladder, reminding her that tonight she would arrive and change the world with her first cry.
She drew the door open, standing in the priest’s way. He tried to press in, but her poking belly kept him in place.
“Good evening, Miss Baynes.”
“Father,” she greeted.
“Can we have a word?” he asked. The old man with his receding hairline thought he was doing honest work.
“Of what?” she asked bluntly.
The man staggered, then glanced at her prominent belly, and hurried to meet her gaze. “Of a christening and your child… your child needing both parents.” He still tried to get past her into the house.
“She has a mother and love. It is all she needs.”
The priest coughed.
She knew what the ladies in town spoke. She knew what the men in the town said. And she knew what the priest wanted. It was not proper for her to keep the child. It was not right that she had the oldest house in town, when other respectable families could live there. Yet when they had spoken their words and cursed her, they came to her and asked for help, giving her their pennies as she kept their secrets.
“I have no use for you. And if you are not to leave and hold your tongue when my child arrives, then you have no place in this town.” As she spoke, the jackdaws in the yard lifted into the air and cawed.
The priest staggered backward. “Miss Baynes,” he said and hurried out of the gates.
Tonight there would be death, and there would be birth. She shut the door behind her, and the house moaned.
—
I love how the season is changing, how everything is painted bright. I have been able to notice other things now that more days have passed since his passing. I have been thinking a lot lately about magic and the material world, and how they’re supposed to be opposites. To my sorrow, my husband still hasn’t found a way to conjure the dead back to life, but he promised that when he can, our dear loving boy will be back.
This season always makes me think about the fine line between the living and the dead, and it is no wonder all the ancient stories about death and witchcraft come together on Hallows’ Eve. Soon the darkness and cold will take over the land and the colors will be gone. The bare trees on the frozen ground are left behind, reminding us of what life is all about. I hope we never find a way to tamper with the seasons.
Today I got a conversational historical fiction about overcoming a monster, written in the limited third person. I love writing about witches and witchcraft. It gives me so much leeway to play with reality. I think we see reality through statistics, monetary gains, perfection, and matter, so we don’t notice what is real and what isn’t. Matter is more than we make it out to be. The mere connections between things throw us off, yet we hold reality to be static, predictable, and as stated by the prophets, hiding exceptions and what they know nothing of. Dr. Iain McGilchrist’s speech about the mystery of consciousness is a great example of how there is more to life than the limited view of matter and mind.
Thank you for reading! Have a magical day, and see you tomorrow ❤
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