Chapter Five: The Plum-Wine Oath
1124 Words
The mighty woman seemed bereft of all enchantment.
Unbeknownst to Amber in her sodden stupor, the great white goose had transmuted from coveted banquet to pariah shunned by all.
Each dawn, bucket-bearers found a plump orb usurping the aqueduct.
Snowy pinions veiled in matin dew, the goose preened to ethereal splendor—only to puff its downy breast at the slightest stir, flapping and nipping, intent on nesting atop any skull.
Its ferocity daunted; household feline familiars suffered most, routed through streets at intervals, their witches powerless.
Dill, relieved of prying eyes, savored solitude, attuning her spirits and lavishing affection on the goose.
Guardian unmatched, its alabaster rotundity pattering on scarlet webs, swaying behind her—healing merely to behold. In doldrums, she cradled it; molted plumes, silken and downy, stuffed pillows.
A perambulating eider sprite—how could she not adore?
“This is the companion my Lady Goddess granted, aye? Thou lovest this best, Turnip.”
Dill arranged emerald turnip leaves in a basket. The goose folded wings meekly, revealing gentleness unseen by others.
Even worldly Amber gaped.
The Moon Goddess, forest ward; her creatures, subjects. Black cats share inspiration; white stags embody purity. The goose… Amber once discerned naught; now glimpsed inheritance.
Renowned for puissance and caprice: devout transgressors turned beasts to grub earth; intruders smitten by meteoric wrath, one arrow per mark. Territorial divine.
Recalling the goose’s territorial zeal, Amber conceded partial lineage.
“Thou namest it Turnip?”
“Fitting, no? Dill and Turnip.”
Indeed: Dill with roasted Turnip goose—enough to lure neighboring werewolves with drool.
From the girl’s serene smile, Amber divined gleeful abandon.
The arch-witch flung open the casement for sobering breezes.
Dill had essayed “Witchfire,” valorous potion banishing darkness. Per grimoire: desiccated sheep-heart base, three scorpion stings, pinch devil’s-beard, stir widdershins half-hour… predictably yielding mutton chili aroma.
She barred portals for evidence disposal—hence the sequel.
“Witchfire I could brew blindfolded—merely inspiration wanting.”
Dill protested gravely, fragrance undermining; Amber’s belly rumbled response. They shared the piquant broth, Dill adding diced serpent for savor.
Amber quaffed it as hangover balm—warming, exorcising spirits inebriate.
Master and apprentice savored in bliss.
“Once benediction readies, Pelyn returns to Junli.” Amber belched, huddling, sipping scalding soup.
Dill, recalling tavern nights, shuttered the window against chills.
Strictly, uninitiated novices were handmaids to the God-Touched, serving needs for magic’s loan. Dill embraced apprenticeship without qualm.
Amber, cavalier, relied on sorcery; Dill tended minutiae.
“Farewell gift for Lady Pelyn?”
Amber gulped: “Depart with her, then.”
Dill’s eyes sparkled—she had never left Miller Vale. “Yes!”
She bustled, clearing crockery, bundling remnants in parchment for her portable apothecary: a driftwood Eastern reliquary refashioned. Amber’s birthday gift—intended knapsack, botched sewing—yet beloved. Once dubious shrine, purified; carvings restored, ebon lacquer cloaking flaws, hinged portal concealing drawers and caskets; shelves coated in preservative elixir, masking arcane aura.
Sated goose waddled after; Dill scooped it, stroking plumage:
“Lady Pelyn must await my benediction, lest the Goddess deem desertion—then she’d carry me thence.”
Amber studied the unwitting girl, inhaled deeply.
“If thou wishest, depart with Pelyn tomorrow eve. I’ll manage all—none shall know, not even the Goddess.”
Words tumbled; Amber clutched throbbing temples—barrels imbibed for valor—voice quavering.
“Lady, you…”
Dill sensed anomaly. The woman gripped her skull, golden mane veiling visage. Turnip, oblivious, tugged locks like ripe grain.
“Dill, Harvest may supplant Abundance. The Triune would cherish thee—safe, joyous lifelong in Junli.”
Languid calico on the sill; the titan seemed stripped of sorcery, cowering, bullied by a goose.
She fears more than I. The thought stunned Dill.
She recalled Amber’s persistent pranks—actually vigilant guardianship. Egg-thieves routed; none dared molest Dill.
When the shell cracked, not only Dill’s dreams shattered—Amber’s last hope too.
The familiar sensed shift, squawked, released tresses, flapped, waddled contritely beneath Dill’s skirts.
“I shall never forsake my Lady Moon.”
Nor thee. Dill’s voice trembled.
Recalling Amber’s blithe facade, she essayed levity: “Without the Goddess, I’d dwell in some port brothel, beaten slave—or suffocated at birth beneath fetid fish.”
Without thee, Amber, I’d have rotted in this primal world.
Thou drew me into it—how abandon?
Gazing at her virtual mother, words choked; yet warmth surged from heart to limbs.
Valor ignited.
Once fear gripped, never flight—Amber here, faith here, home here. Dread’s strangle, faith refilled her chilled breast with courage.
Black-haired maiden palm to heart, curtsied, invoking divinity:
“My love and fealty eternal to the Moon Goddess; I shall offer the t****l’s head, beseeching benediction.”
Divine-granted courage voiced the unsayable.
Await my triumph, mentor.
The girl’s clarion rang like iced water, rousing Amber’s besotted brain.
The Goddess will adore this child.
Memories flooded.
The infant wailing amid reeking fish, grimy face bright-eyed, tiny mouth gnawing her finger—desperate will to live.
She swaddled it, to the black-haired merchant: “This child is mine.”
The Goddess will adore this child.
Then and now.
Amber opened her mouth, eyes eloquent—then pointed: “Knowest thou thy tongue glows?”
*Pop*—sentimental bubble burst. Dill clapped her mouth, dashed to the fractured glass mirror; the calico leapt, pinning the eager goose.
Dill’s “Witchfire” remained half-wrought; frowning at luminous tongue, she glimpsed over shoulder Amber doubled in mirth—her own tongue vermilion as a worm.
Eh? Keen-eyed, Dill spied the concealed bottle.
She lunged for the drunkard’s hoard; Amber dodged cat-agile.
“Careful! ’Tis precious!”
The vial shimmered, echoing outdoor chimes; rosy-green plums sank, bubbling playfully. Uncorked, crisp sigh evoked distant summer—undrunk plum soda, snowy shave-ice.
“Pelyn’s brew, Eastern plums—perhaps flavored, yet nigh identical.”
Amber chuckled at Dill’s embrace. Pelyn fermented, but Amber sourced ingredients, enlisting sea-witches for transport.
Intended birthday gift—now repurposed.
“Count it Pelyn’s. Mine: name any treasure in Miller Vale.”
Mightiest incantations, Bertha’s panther, Mida’s moon-blessed tresses—Amber would fetch unhesitating.
The valley’s paramount witch reborn.
She granted a day and half; Dill answered instantly:
“Lady Mida’s Grand Fable?”
Amber, hearing the name, reached for razor—then comprehended: “That? A mere game?”
Dill flushed, yet cherished the tiles. Solo with goose—lonely road. Play en route, divine for coin, or pry gems for sustenance.
Magic frail, arms none—jeweled oracle outshone all.
She veiled mercantile intent, hand to breast, devout: “The Goddess wills serene journey.”
At her ward’s cunning, Amber yawned cavernously.
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