Ashley Jones

“She bleeds red.”

“So bleed her again,” my sister said simply.

Angus, the guardsman tasked with carrying out the Reckoning tonight, took the iron lance to the woman’s cheek once more.

Slash.

A perfect twin to the red, dripping welt on her other cheek.

The woman lifted her chin, locking eyes with my sister. “The Old Gods watch, Brigid. They watch and they—”

Angus punched her in the face. Once. Twice. “May the Goddess cast you to Ifrinn, you whore.” He was really enjoying himself. He certainly had a flare for the dramatics of it all.

The woman’s eyes closed and her head slumped forward, either exhausted or unconscious, I couldn't tell which.

Not dead, though. Yet.

Long brown hair shielded her face and I winced at the bend of her delicate shoulders, her joints straining under the weight of her own body.

Iona, her name. The woman — The witch.

She’d been stripped and strung up on the pyre earlier in the morning, at the centre of the Standing Stones of Tìr na Luan. Upon Àania’s Altar.

As a child, I’d been terrified of coming to The Stones, hating the eerie stillness that had once laced this place. Now, I hated coming for far more nefarious reasons.

Huge granite monoliths, there were nine stones in total, each intricately hewn with decorative motifs. Symbols and spirals and twisting loops alongside depictions of strange, monstrous creatures. And in the centre of them all, embedded into a grassy mound — a flat rounded disc with Àania’s Goddess Moon gouged into the stone itself. The half crescent moon, inverted like an arch, brushed and polished every day to shine and reflect moonbeams.

We’d been born under a Goddess Moon, my sister and I, more than twenty two years ago on the first day of a new turn. A rare and great omen, or so we’d been told.

“Àania herself shone down upon you, and was so taken by your beauty that she granted you your gift,” our father had said to my sister more times than I could count, his dark eyes shining with adoration for the daughter he had so loved from the minute she took her first breath.

And then came me. Seven minutes later.

“Dripping in blood and gore, great storm clouds cast you in shade. You nearly tore your mother in half.” He sneered, jabbing me on the chest bone. “So ugly I could barely look at you.”

Brigid and I were identical twins. A fact our father often forgot.

“Clearly all too much for the bitch who pushed you out of her cunt, she took one look at you and ran.”

It had always been clear whose fault it was that we’d grown up motherless.

His deep baritone voice pulled my attention to where he stood beside my sister. “Àania watches over us all, children. Honest women, good women, those untouched by darkness of magick will be saved by the Great Goddess of the Moon.”

The crowd cheered, a little half heartedly, but when Brigid stepped forward smiling, they roared.

Brigid An Beannaichte they called her — Brigid the Blessed…the name made me want to gouge my own eyeballs out.

Not quite a full moon tonight, but still Àania’s light bounced off the silver circlet sitting upon her head, the shining silver casting a stunning glow around her red hair.

She was luminous — a diamond amongst the sea of brown and grey in Ormaig — and how could anyone look away from a jewel so shiny and beautiful? A shame that shine so often dulled my own. That so often I was cast in shadow by her and her gift.

Although we were near identical from afar — both slim, medium build, both red headed and pale skinned, when you looked closer, the differences between us became clear. Our eyes were green but where Brigid’s were the bright green of fresh spring grass, mine were more murky — flecked with brown and red, as if mirroring the redwood forest that surrounded our town. Brigid’s silky locks always managed to hold onto a sun kissed radiance I could never achieve. Mine had dulled to a muted rust a long while ago, hanging in uneven waves to my waist, it was coarse, dry from lack of brushing and usually tangled from swimming. Brigid had a delightful little sprinkle of red freckles across the bridge of her nose - the smattering sweet, charming almost. My own freckles were totally unruly, abundant — littering my entire face, my shoulders, my chest, even my legs. There wasn't a single place on my body they couldn't be seen. Dhairmid and I used to practice counting them…though we’d quickly run out of the numbers we knew.

Lifting her arms to calm the crowd, the sleeves of Brigid’s green velvet gown fluttered in the biting wind. “Witches will be brought to justice in the light of flames. Those who deign to dance with darkness will burn, says the Goddess, and those who stay silent in the presence of magick shall burn alongside them.” Her breathy voice was a melodic balm, working the mob into a frenzy.

They wanted more. More.

A guardsman threw a bucket of iced water at Iona’s naked form and I flinched as one of the larger shards hit her directly in the face.

She gasped, sucking in a ragged breath, waking once more to this fucking nightmare.

One of the younger guards, whose name I didn't know, tugged her head back violently, taking shears normally used to clip sheep to Iona’s beautiful brown locks.

She sobbed as he began hacking. As unholy clumps of her hair and skin and blood fell to the ground.

And still, she bled red.

Those fucking monsters even sheared the dark hair between her legs.

Bile rose in my gut. When I looked at my sister standing silently to Iona’s left, a serene smile on her face, I almost vomited.

I turned away, eyes drifting to where Iona’s lover stood with his arm around the slim shoulders of his wife, a silent tear marking his own face.

Fucker.

Men cheat and women pay. In blood.

Iona had arrived in Ormaig not five months ago, having come from one of our smaller settlements in the mountains and she’d found work in the wash house. I'd shared a flagon of mead with her in the drinking hall once. I was sure we had shared some of the same men, though we never talked of it. She was fun, easy to be around. Two days ago she was caught in bed with Ric, one of the stonemasons. When his wife saw the two together she had pointed a murderous finger at Iona, calling her a witch. Ric had agreed. Bewitched he’d told my father, and so a Reckoning had been called.

A trial…Though I’d never witnessed anyone being given a chance to prove their innocence.

The mob was silent as the last of Iona’s hair fell to the ground. Red streaks painted her breasts, her stomach, her legs.

Not a drop of black blood in sight. Not that it mattered. They always bled red.

As soon as a woman, and it was always a woman, was tied to the pyre, her fate was sealed. Àania never came to save them — No matter the colour of their blood, The Moon Goddess never seemed to hear their screams.

This was the third Reckoning in as many months. Over the past year, I’d been forced to watch so many they’d almost blurred into one. I wouldn't allow those women to be forgotten like dust in the wind, like the ashes of their bodies blown in heaps towards the Morravagh Mountains. No. I would remember their names.

Moire.

Anna.

Eubh.

Una.

Agnes.

Fionnaghal.

Doirin.

Oli.

Janet.

My sister’s voice drew my attention back to him. “You refuse to bleed truth, hag, so we cast you to the flames with your lies. May your soul freeze in the pits of Ifrinn.”

Angus took a flaming torch to the kindling at Iona’s feet. The fire caught easily and quickly.

Iona didn't scream.

As flames began to lick at her legs, she looked directly at my sister, and smiled. “Oh, what a bonnie, bonnie blaze.”

And then she started laughing.

Brigid flinched. Was it fear I saw cross her eyes? Or anger? I didn't know, but when she raised her chin once more, Brigid’s eyes were clear.

Iona laughed as the fire melted her skin, as it seared the flesh from her bones. She laughed and laughed until she was swallowed entirely by the smoke and the flames. Her silence burned into all of our minds.

The laughter, at least, was a change from the screaming.

The crowd was silent as we all watched Iona’s body turn to ash.

“Home?” Brigid’s voice was soft. I hadn't realised she’d come to my side.

“No, I need a drink.” I walked away, leaving my sister in the smoky haze. In the ending of another woman’s life.

☽◯☾

Tiptoeing quietly over the Great Grey wolf lying on my floor, I aimed for the door. On his back, Cuilean’s huge paws were splayed in the air, tongue lolling out of his mouth and his lethal teeth sparkling in the morning light.

He farted loudly and my top lip curled in disgust when the smell hit me — Ferocious beast indeed.

After watching Iona burn, I’d pilfered a flagon from our meadhall, careful to avoid my father, or any of the Àania Guard, and had gone to my loch. When I was full of enough mead to drown the sounds of Iona’s laughter, I’d swam naked under the stars and pretended to be somewhere else entirely. Oake had helped me to bed sometime before dawn and I’d managed a couple of hours sleep before being chased from my dreams by visions of women painted black with soot and of bloody footprints on the pine carpet of the forest. Dragging myself from bed, I’d thrown on a thick tunic and made my way to our hearth room, passing Brigid’s room as I went. I peered in to see her sound asleep, tucked under a mountain of furs. She’d been asleep when I’d crept in last night…or this morning…and I was thankful I hadn't woken her — grateful I didn't need to see the judgement on her face.

I took in the sunken edge to Brigid’s cheekbones, dark shadows bruising the pale skin under her eyes — the cost of delving into her formidable gift. Her dà-shealladh, her Second Sight, had manifested when we were barely even five years old. She’d predict the rains before they came; tell us who’d be at our door before we heard the knock; she once even told a neighbour of her impending death…before the woman slipped away to Sona Fú Alth, The Land of Wandering Souls, a few hours later. The gift Àania had granted my sister became more powerful after we came of age at eighteen and she became more useful, more adored — almost a deity herself to our people as she gifted them with glimpses of their futures.

As Brigid’s sight grew and so did my father’s coffers — for a glimpse of Brigid’s gift, people paid very well and our father delighted in the status and power it brought him, lavishing Brigid with jewels, fine clothing. Such nonsense when our people starved when the snows came.

But, though they earned her well, the visions became far more intense and were at times so fierce Brigid’s whole body was given to convulsion, fits so ravaging they could last hours as visions took over her body. Often she’d be forced to bed for days, body left weak and her head aching.

“Let her live in peace, without pain.” I’d pleaded with my father after she’d had another seizure which had lasted all night.

“Brigid’s dà-shealladh is a blessing from Àania,” he growled back, “The Goddess honors her, honours this family.”

“At what cost? While you lavish her in finery, what cost does this gift have on her?”

He had slapped me so hard I had fallen against the stone workbench in our hearth room, cracking a rib on my way down. The next day Brigid was back out delivering prophecies to the highest bidder.

She never complained, never moaned, and never, ever, spoke out against our father.

And she never did mention my broken rib.

Brigid shifted under the furs and a pale shoulder peeked out from beneath. I walked to her, pulling the blankets around her tightly and as I touched her, her wide eyes popped open.

She grabbed my arm tightly, causing me to wince. “Storm is coming.”

I pulled her ringed hand away gently. “It’s me, Brigid.” Her nails were bitten to the quick, the skin beside them ragged and raw. One had been bleeding. Kissing her knuckles, I tucked her hand back beneath the furs. “Sleep.”

She sucked a deep breath through her nose and closed her eyes again. She was snoring lightly when I left her room a moment later and made my way to our hearthfire. The Three were already there, busying round the space, preparing oats for breakfast. Though they didn't live with us, they came each and every day to serve my father.

Our round stone dwelling was larger than some others in Ormaig, but not grand by any means. My father didn't believe in exuberance…for anyone other than Brigid. To be austere was the greatest respect you could give to the Goddess. A simple home, a simple life, for the Chief and his people.

Oake came to my side, squeezing my shoulders affectionately and presenting me with a cup of cold water. After the amount I drank last night, my stomach was in no state to tackle anything to eat quite yet, but I took the water, giving her a grateful smile in return. Elm was sitting in a rickety wooden chair beside the hearthfire, sipping from a cup, and stirring whatever bubbled in the pot hanging from the ceiling above the fire. The oldest of The Three, Elm was prone to terrible arthritis in her hands and knees, and although we all did our best to hide the fact from my father, I knew how much it pained her. A few months ago I’d managed to get her some, rather hard to come by, eucalyptus herbs from Calum, a merchant in our town, and as I bent to kiss her pillowy cheek, I was happy to smell the minty vapours coming from her steaming cup.

Grabbing a thick woollen shawl from the stand by the door, I caught Willow frowning at me, lips pursed. “What?” I asked innocently, pulling the shawl over the brown tunic I wore.

Folding her arms at me and huffing a breath, she let me see her blatant disapproval of my rather late night.

I flashed her a toothy grin and a wink in return. She blew out another exasperated breath but came to me to help tie the shawl below my chin. She tried to keep a frown on her face but I saw the corners of her mouth turn up and I give her a quick kiss on the cheek.

For all my father’s lack of warmth, to me at least, I was thankful to have the three sisters who’d been with us our whole lives. Willow, Oake and Elm were a constant steady presence, full of affection for both my sister and I, even if it was only when my father wasn't looking. I’d always wondered if they had known our mother. Not that they’d be able to tell us. Their tongues had been cut out long ago.

The practice was now, thankfully, long forgotten, but The Three were old, their faces wrinkled and bodies slowly curving over under the weight of the hard lives they’d lived. If their lack of tongue wasn't indication enough of what they were, the thick black ring tattooed around their necks certainly made it clear.

Slaves.

My father had always insisted they came to him with tongues already cut out — I wasn't so sure.

“Brigid says a storm's coming. I need to go make sure the horses are well supplied if the rains come.” Willow nodded before her hazel eyes were drawn over my head, widening just I felt a heavy presence at my back.

“Out whoring last night Brèa?” My father’s voice sliced through the room.

I swallowed deeply but didn't turn towards him, walking straight out the door.

He didn't stop me.

I kept my eyes down and my steps quick as I made my way from our dwelling into the town of Ormaig already alive in the late morning light. I passed people already setting about their chores for the day, young men carrying wood to their hearthfires, women chopping vegetables or washing pots on porches and children poking their heads out of their dwellings, hair dishevelled with sleep.

It was easy to forget that we’d watched a woman burn last night.