The Rollright Witch

I am Aelfgifu, a witte, someone who holds and weaves strands of magic. I was born into the Husmerae, a tribe of Hwicce, a land of many tribes. It was in the year 600 as the Christians counted it, always gabbling on about their nailed god. I was born to magic, and at a young age I was given to a druid of the Dobunni, the Britonnic tribe that we shared this land with. He was well-travelled and had been to Rome and Gaul, and even through the homeland of my people, Germania. I learned about the gods and the spirits of the land, and when I came of age, I dedicated myself to Frijjo, who had taught Woden how to use magic. 

And so I became the guardian of the stones at Rodland Rix. It is the place of the ancestors of the Dobunni, and now mine too, as we lay our dead to rest near the stone circle, like the many that seem to grow out of this land like mushrooms.

Some years before my birth, my grandfather had helped the Hwicce to throw off those that had conquered us some years before, the Gewisse. They are a tribe constantly looking to expand their territory, and they have threatened our borders and meddled in our politics ever since we threw them out, always trying to stir up trouble. Now war between Gewisse and Mercia is as inevitable as flames when spark meets kindling, and we are about to be dragged into the fire as well. May Thunor strike both Gewisse and Mercia, and leave us out of it.

I have been the guardian of the stones for fifteen years now, living just outside the nearby settlement, between the villagers and the stones. The people fear this place, and me too, as the woman who tends them, but they come to see me, nonetheless. When a child or cattle sickens, when a maid grows large with an unwanted babe, when someone is about to pass the threshold into death, they send for me, and I go. I tend the dead and the stones in their resting place, and I hear the whispers of the spirits that dwell here. It is a sacred place, and so I am sacred as its guardian.

I have seen 28 summers now, and the war is inevitable. Rumours abound that Penda and his Mercian army are on the march, and the Gewisse have roused, cajoled, threatened or bribed the Hwicce leaders to join them in battle. The kings of the Gewisse, Cynegils and Cwichelm are young fools, thinking they can stand up to Penda, king of Mercia.

The day is warm and soft, the hills roll gently away as I stand by the stone that marks the dead. Something is in the air today, and a crow croaks in the distance, an omen. I take out my bronze skillet from my bag and pour water into it from my waterskin. A shudder ripples down my spine, and the sky darkens though there is not a cloud in the sky. I wash my hands, preparing myself to see, then reverently pour the waters into the earth, giving thanks to Frijjo.

I grip my amber necklace and then carefully unwrap my spindle whorl, made with a rod of ash, same as Yggdrasil. I root myself into the earth, and lay my precious amethyst from far to the frozen north upon my brow. I start to spin the spindle whorl in my hands, the threads of ancient magic, of earth and sky and stone and the dead spinning together. I can feel it, hear it, a distant rushing sound backed by a silence so deep it is as if the world has been covered by a blanket. No birds, no insects, no wind. Nothing. I twirl it back and forth in my palms, letting it flow through me and around me. I twirl it sunwise, so that I can catch the future. The other way catches the past.

When I feel it is done, I take my antler disc out of its pouch, and hold it up to my eye. I can see through the small hole to what is wound on the spindle. I catch the end and pull it out slowly, and as I do, the future runs ahead. It is not what I had hoped, but there is only one way forward from here.

I sigh and look up at the sky, so blue. Birdsong fills the air and I breathe in, simmering in the feel of sun and wind on my face, the earth beneath me. A sound stirs me from my reverie, and I turn to see a small boy, eyes wide with awe and fear. 

“Well?” I say.

“The kings are coming. My lady, err. King Cynegils and King Cwichelm. They’re going to ride through and they want to stop here and my mam said I should….” He faltered into silence.

So soon? I nodded my head in acknowledgement, and the boy ran as if a draugr were after him. Maybe he thought there was! A spirit of the dead come to steal his life. I gave a grim laugh. The dead here rested peacefully, for the most part. They really just wanted company.

I shook myself and went to prepare. I made my way over to the stone circle, the stones humming with energy. I would meet the kings here. The sun was hanging low in the sky, the gloaming starting to creep in to the east when I could finally hear hoofbeats thudding into the earth. An owl hooted, haunting and low and I nodded. Just the kings and a guard then, not the whole damn army. Something to be grateful for, I supposed.

Although I was in the prime of my life, still fit and strong, my body not ruined by the endless pregnancy and childbirth of a married woman, I suddenly felt old, tired, weary to my bones. I summoned the strength of the circle and the dead that surrounded us, as those psychopathic peacocks came into view. They thundered their horses towards me, as if in a battle charge, and I just stood, feet planted in the middle of the circle. They wouldn’t dare enter with such disrespect.

They pulled up harshly just as they reached the edge, almost pitching themselves over their horses necks. I had to stifle a laugh. Idiots. There were about a hundred men with them, all on horseback, and most looking extremely uncomfortable in this place as night drew in. I sent my thoughts down into the earth and up into the air, and a whining, howling wind blew down, screeching through the trees. A little scare wouldn’t hurt, and I had to have my fun while I could.

The two at the front, most ostentatiously dressed, dismounted. Cynegils was a big, burly man with dark hair and a look on his face that told me he thought that cunning was the same as intelligence. Cwichelm was a bit slighter, hair a bit lighter, and slightly more reticent about striding into the circle towards me.

“Ho witte. We have come for you to read the future for us, we would know of the battle we are to fight at Cyrneceastre.”

I gritted my teeth in irritation at his manner.

“You are welcome, my lords, to this sacred place. I am its guardian, and I can read the future. In fact I already have, kings of Gewisse.”

Cwichelm’s face drained of colour at my tone, but Cynegils snorted, his ugly face momentarily distorted by derision.

“Well witte, tell my men, tell them how we will be kings of all, Hwicce and Mercia as well as Gewisse!”

“I cannot.”

Cynegils looked as if his eyes were about to pop out of his head, face purple with apoplexy.

“What?!”

“You will never be kings of the Hwicce.”

Cwichelm turned to grab his brother, but before he could, Cynegils roared with fury, pulling a dagger from his belt. He grabbed me and thrust the blade deep into my abdomen, pointing up, aiming for my heart. I felt my blood pour out of me and saw into his squinting, stupid eyes, seeing only delight in violence and death. I heard Cwichelm cry out and the horses spooked. The wind howled and many bolted as he savagely pulled the dagger out of my gut.

I fell to my knees, feeling only cold, the pain a distant thing. I saw my blood seep into the earth and thrust my hands into it, feeling the power as the stones drew in my life. I summoned up every shred of power I had left, my voice thick with it and my blood. This was old magic, something the Dobunni druid had taught me, long ago.

“I lay a geas on you. If you ever kill a dog, you will die shortly thereafter.”

My voice throbbed with the energy of the stones, heavy, old and dark, spoken with blood and death. Even Cynegils looked shaken and backed off, dagger falling from his fingers. I fell and rolled onto my back, with great effort, and I felt the dead gather around the circle. I saw the stars come out, shining brightly, no moon in the sky.

I felt my life-blood drain away, my life withdrawing into the earth, and my body became cold. Even my magic, here in the stones, could not prevent my death, as my blood ebbed out of me. I died that night, as my people were dragged to war.

I was buried close to my stones, my body becoming one with the earth. They buried me with my bronze skillet, my amethyst, amber, antler disc and my spindle whorl. I rested easy, knowing that all things would pass, even this war, eventually. 

Cynegils broke my geas, only a day away from Cyrneceastre. Crossing a river, a she-otter had tried to protect her young. Cynegils had kicked her with a heavy, booted foot, and killed the river dog. A day later, at the battle, He and his brother were struck down by the Mercians, and the Hwicce were able to broker a deal with King Penda and live in peace. At least for a while.

© Elena Tornberg-Lennox 2023