TALES OF THE WITCH CLAN

 

BLOOD MOON RISING

     The windows of the family kwoon were open, letting the cool autumn air circulate freely within. The old man’s oaken practice sword never wavered, rapping a tattoo that shook him down in his bones. Jumping and whirling, long, silken, white hair streaming out like a banner, Jon’s father never tired of sword drills. A few more moments of such a brutal attack and he would be on his knees. Then without a word, his father lowered his weapon and stepped back.

“Dad!” Jon gasped, in the wake of his father’s attack, “I’ve got to catch my breath.”

“I could use a hot cup of sassafras.” the old wizard acceded. “Care for some?”

“What I want is cold and wet,” Jon panted, “on me, in me, all over!”
He shook his head. Where did his father get so much energy? He grabbed some bottled water from the fridge. Even though in the past year, he had shot up another inch or so, and was now taller than his dad’s six foot five inch frame, he couldn‘t keep up with the old man no matter how hard he tried. While serving as an Army Ranger in Afghanistan, he had turned twenty one. He looked like his father, except that he carried his mother’s Cherokee features. Dad was a blond, blue eyed, Celtic barbarian, from an ancient, Irish witch clan, Mom a dark eyed, raven haired, civilized version of Native American loveliness, from a Baptist family.

So different. How did they ever manage to stay together as long as they did and rear four children? Jon smiled to himself. Karma overran dogma. At least that is what his father always said.

“We’re going to have to work on your transitions,” the old man broke in to his reverie, “both to and from an assassin’s grip. It’ll save your life, someday.”

“I suppose that’s possible, Dad.” Jon chuckled. “But I don’t get drawn into much lethal swordplay these days. After all, it’s the Twenty-first Century. They use Glocks and Ingrams now, instead of broadswords.”

     “Be that as it may,” the old man countered, “there are some who won’t rely on machines that can fail, when they want to kill. The Blood Moon is coming.”
     

“Well, we’ll have to work on those moves later.” Jon gulped his bottled water. “I have to go take Mel and the twins to their doctor’s appointment by ten.”

* * *

     Melanie was the eldest of Jonathan’s three sisters. While her husband, James, was at work, other members of the family would come by to help rear the newest clan members. The six foot tall amazon had her mother’s dark eyed, raven haired, beauty and her father’s physical and spiritual disposition. Her first pregnancy netted them a pair of healthy twin boys. Years ago, their father proclaimed that she would be groomed as the clannad’s matriarch. She was the old man’s favorite, but you wouldn’t know it for all the hell he had put her through while expecting her to shine. Never once did she let her father down. She would die trying first, and like her father, that wasn’t likely to happen easily.

The regal matriarch of the Storm Witch Clan was up to her elbows in baby pooh. Diaper changing time with the twins was not an event that Jon cherished. He loved his nephews fiercely, but his stomach had its own opinion.

“C’mon, Jon,” Mel snapped, “Shake a leg with those baby wipes or we’ll be late.”

“If I shake anyone’s leg” he gagged. “God knows what else may roll out of there!”

“Men can be such babies!” Mel laughed.

* * *

     The boys were cleaned up and loaded into the minivan, and on their way to their pediatric appointment in short order.

“Mel, I gotta talk about Dad,” Jon blurted out. When he had left his father at the kwoon, the old man had grabbed his great sword for even more practice. “He’s like a maniac with those swords of his lately. He mentioned something about preparing for the Blood Moon,.. What’s up with that?”

“It happens close to Halloween this year, Jon.” Mel explained, “It’s a great full moon for working curses. Around the time of Samhain, the veil is thinnest between the darkest worlds. I think Dad is worried about what may come through.”

“Shouldn’t he be practicing his spell craft instead?” he asked. “This will be a spirit thing, won’t it? What good are swords?”

“Two things, brother…” Mel said, raising an index finger. “One: Dad may seem somewhat eccentric to outsiders, but we know who and what he really is. Respect that.” Raising her second finger in a witch sign below her eyes, she said, “Two: Knowledge is power. You should go to the source of your questions and ask him. He’s your father, and the most knowledgeable wizard you’ll find on this topic.”

“It’s just that when I ask him stuff, like where and how he got those scars, he gives me some off-the-wall answer,” Jon complained, “and when I call him on that, he laughs at me and tells me the truth is even harder to believe. Also, I think I’m afraid of his answer, and I was hoping you would give me some normalcy,” he said sullenly.

“Normal?” Mel’s eyebrows arched, “In this family? I’m afraid to tell you that para-normal is as close as you’re going to get. We weren’t born for such things.”

“A couple years of Army life, and just seeing you taking care of the twins gave me a false sense of normal.” Jon laughed.

“I noticed that the normal act of changing diapers didn’t sit too well with you either, brother mine.” Mel giggled, as Jon faked gagging.

Gareth and Callum checked out fine with their pediatrician and got their shots, which made them cranky the rest of the day. Melanie had her hands full with their care and feeding. Jonathan was only too happy to help with mundane chores as he pondered his father’s obsessive behavior.

Later in the day, Becky, his second oldest sister, came upstairs to find Jon. Like his other sisters, she was about six feet tall, but with a willowy figure, as opposed to the harder frames of the others. With her mother’s looks she could’ve been a model, but was attending college to become a veterinarian.

“Dad called for you,” she said, “I didn’t know you were home, so I took a message. He said to meet him at Kidron for practice tomorrow.”

The mention of the brook Kidron meant that practice was going to reach extreme limits. Practice moves and simple sparring was done either in the kwoon or the backyard, but all the full contact moves were done on dead wood stands in the deep woods near the brook. The Storm kids had learned and practiced wood lore and martial arts there from the time they could walk. Evidently, Dad wanted all his sword moves at full power and flawlessly executed, and the place to do that was Kidron. Jonathan packed his swords and equipment for the next day’s work out.

By nine in the morning, Jon found his father hacking away with twin machetes on a large, dead sugar maple they used for shuriken target practice. The old man was stripped to the waist in his black jeans and cross trainers, with his hair in a long braid down his back. His silver clan medallion gleamed white at his throat in the morning sunlight. He was whirling like a dervish, hacking away at the trunk and numerous logs he had set up to simulate a standing army. Branches and chips flew in the still morning air, the machetes moved like twin circular blurs. He wasn’t even sweating.

     Jon approached the clearing near the brook, and placed his gear on the mossy bank.

“Reporting for practice, sifu!” Jon shouted, as he sorted through his battle bag for the appropriate equipment and weapons.

“Today, we’ll stick with the short swords,” the old man said, transitioning from a human buzz saw to a lecturing master in the space of a heartbeat, “to practice the transitions to and from an assassin’s grip.”

He had practiced these self same moves with his father since he was four years old, but the old man insisted that the technique needed something more to be effective. Jon wanted to talk to his Dad, but unless he was questioned directly, speaking was forbidden during the lessons. There would be plenty of time to chat during the breaks. Over and over again, the swords whirled in both hands, both overhand and underhand every time the old man barked. Showing the weakness in the move, the old wizard smacked at Jon’s blade in the middle of the transition and it stuck in the ground at his feet.

“As you turn the blade, keep your index and middle finger taut around the hilt,” instructed the old wizard, “and then tighten your complete fist on the hilt as it swings around into position. For an assassin‘s grip, your index finger positions the hilt, while your middle fingers stay taut, and then tighten your fist. ”

Again, the old man barked, and Jon reversed grip on both hands. It was looking better and felt more solid. The true test was completing the strokes on the fallen hardwoods that littered the forest after the last ice storm. Jon jumped, whirled and hacked at every branch that showed itself within his range. When his father barked, he would shift his grip, and in the process, sever the branches nearest to his arm. As always, the old man knew what he was talking about. It just took time and effort for Jon to understand its meaning.

“Dad, why are we doing this?” Jon asked during the break, while they sat on a stone near the stream.
“Because a swordsman, like his sword, must never lose his edge or he becomes obsolete,” the old wizard replied, while gazing steadily into the rippling water.

“We’ve practiced out here as long as I can remember.” Jon gestured at the woods, “I’ve never seen you push to this degree in all of those years. It was just a game we played as kids. We barely knew we were being trained in martial arts. But I know in my heart that this is serious, Dad. What’s it really all about? And how does it tie in with the upcoming lunar eclipse on your calendar?”

“In our culture, each full moon has its own name and characteristics through out the season.” the old man lectured. “Mostly in spell craft it is the new moon, or moonless nights on which evil curses are worked. The exception to this would be the Blood Moon, an eclipsed full moon, colored blood red. That could power a whopper of a curse to throw at someone.”

“You taught us in the craft,” Jon said, “that the Law of Threes makes it unwise for a true witch to send out curses, knowing they’ll come back threefold.”

“That’s true,” said the old man, “but I didn’t say we would be using curses. I’m talking about really bad, or foolish witches and warlocks.”

“But why the sword craft, Dad?” Jon asked. “Swords don’t stop curses.”

“Do you remember, about ten years ago, my study of the druid’s astrological wheel and rift energies?” the old man asked.

“Who could forget?” Jon reminisced.

     It was a bright summer solstice when his father had used a combination of sunlight and magic focused into a crystal orb to open the rift in the Devil’s Bathtub to the mythic world of Gwynydd.

“Faeries came flying out of a big ball of light in your hands,” Jon went on. “Us kids met Sundog for the first time that day, and Mel took his picture. You’re not anticipating fighting faeries with swords, are you?”

“Well, son, it was with cold steel that the early Irish settlers drove off the Tuatha Danaans from Ireland,” the old man lectured. “To be sure, the rifts also are known to open into darker planes on other times of the year, like Samhain, for instance. The Blood Moon occurring as it does, within a few nights of Halloween will make for a very potent energy to draw dark things through. You know full well that the faeries can be dangerous and not just cute. There are terrible creatures in the faery world that hate humans with an unholy passion. Should some fool warlock feel led to open such a door, all hell would literally break loose. Just in case I’m right about this, you and I will be on the welcoming committee, waiting with swords drawn.”

Jon had been taught at an early age that fear had no place in him. When he began to feel the icicles forming in his gut, he employed the discipline his father taught him. He slowed his racing heart and his breathing and expelled the fear for his enemies to breathe in. Sword practice continued for the remainder of that morning until his muscles burned from the exertion. The old man still showed no sign of weariness.

The Blood Moon would happen an hour before midnight on Wednesday night. The old wizard determined that if the rift would be opened, that it would happen in one of two places locally. The Devil’s Bathtub in nearby Mendon, New York, where Sundog came through, was less than an hour’s drive away, However, it was in the midst of a deeply wooded park, far away from where any humans might be. These creatures would want human blood upon crossing over. The better choice was a wooded portion of Cobb’s Hill park, in the midst of metropolitan Rochester. There would be hapless victims aplenty within blocks of the rift. Old Storm was certain that it would happen from this point. A survey during the daylight hours revealed occult symbols scrawled as graffiti in various points around the park. Witchcraft was being worked in the area and it was being prepared for a visitation this night.

About ten o’clock on Wednesday night, Melanie and James loaded the twins into the four-by-four. Jon put his battle bag with his swords and equipment in the back and climbed into the rear seat next to the boys. In spite of all the jostling, they were fast asleep. Melanie was virtually dripping in silver jewelry. James and the babies also were wearing silver charms of one sort or another.

“I take it that the swords won’t be enough for tonight,” Jon observed worriedly.

“Dad has something special for you two,” Mel replied from the front seat. “We won’t be going into the woods with you, but our prayers will. Dad’s more experienced at this sort of thing. Take your cues from him.”

They pulled up to the wooded section on the eastern end of the reservoir. The well used, old Chevy van sat like a squatter just under the trees. There was no sign of the old man, but with his predilection for wearing nothing but solid black on black, Jon anticipated not seeing him until the wizard wanted to be seen.
He climbed out of the vehicle and grabbed his gear from the back. Melanie got out and sprinkled salt on the vehicle and him as she prayed. He strapped his swords crosswise over his shoulders and buckled on shin and arm guards.

A looming shadow caught his attention. Startled, he looked up. The old man stood beside him looking intently from under the broad brim of his black leather hat. Silver bosses circling the hatband gleamed whitely in the moonlight. In his long, black leather duster he looked like a highwayman of old. Ominous protrusions over each shoulder shown that he, also, was literally dressed to kill. He laid out on the hood of the four-by-four the large bundle he carried.

 

“It’s going to be unnaturally cold in these woods tonight, son,” the old man explained, “so you’ll want to wear these too.”

The bundle consisted of an old trench coat his father used to wear when Jon was a little boy. It had been mended a thousand times and been around the world in his father’s travels almost as many times. A silver medallion with mage runes etched into the metal lay on top of a pair of black leather gloves with silver plates riveted to the backs of the hands. A black felt hat with a silver studded hatband completed the ensemble.
Jon chuckled.

     “What’s so funny, son?” the old man asked.

“It’s just that, if we get stopped by the police, we’ll never convince them that we are not pimps from hell.”

“No cop in his right mind will want to go where we are going tonight,” said the wizard, “so that won’t be a problem.”

Mel kissed them both, and tossed salt on them before they left into the darkness of the woods.

“Give ‘em hell, guys,” she called out. “They asked for it.”

Dressed and ready for battle, they turned as twin towers and strode quietly down the path that led into the woods. In the dappled light of the full moon, strange silvery sigils seemed to flicker across his and his father’s coats. God alone knew how many times the old wizard had charmed them, . Prominent amongst all the runes was the upward pointing spear of Tyr, the rune of the spirit warrior. It took on a significant meaning at this point in time.

“Tonight, I am my father’s son,” he said quietly to himself.

The time of the Blood Moon was fast approaching. Already, a tinge of red was showing on the moon as the earth moved between it and the sun. It was confusing in these woods at night. Trails wound and turned back on themselves, and the sounds of whispered chants came from all directions.

“We’ve got to find the rift area and contain the dark fae before they start for the city streets,” the old wizard stated as he pulled out a small crystal orb, about an inch and a half across. Standing in a crossroad clearing, and using his silver medallion to shine the moonlight into the crystal in his fingers, he called out,

“Sundog, we’re going to need your assistance if we hope to stop this abomination in time.”
Like a trick of the eyes, a blue glint of light shot out of the crystal and into the woods to their right. As they followed, the moon grew increasingly red. Their silver accouterments gleamed an angry red in response to the Blood Moon. Whispered chants grew louder just up ahead of them. The woods were beginning to feel very crowded.

 

The odor of an acrid, metallic incense wafted from a glowing brazier in the small clearing ahead. Upon hearing the soft “shshing” of his father drawing his swords, Jon likewise drew his own. Tonight, they chose the short, leaf shaped, double edged Celtic war swords that would suit the close contact fighting in the woods. The twin blades gleamed red in the tainted moonlight.

“If you leave the door open like this,” the old wizard called to the shrouded figure standing at the brazier, “you can never tell who will show up.”

“No worries,” a sibilant male voice rasped and the figure gestured broadly. “I was prepared for uninvited guests.”

From around the clearing, figures moved towards them, barely discernable in the dimness of the available light . There was something wrong with the large man sized silhouettes that Jon couldn’t pinpoint.

“Dog soldiers!” exclaimed the old man at his side.

“No werewolves?” Jon quipped nervously.

“I would have preferred werewolves, “ the old man grumbled. “They aren’t as organized as these. It’s going to get hairy. Be sharp.”

An ominous communal growling came from all around them. Into the red light of the full moon stepped the first dog soldier. It appeared humanoid in general configuration, but the similarity ended there. Its furred body stood seven feet tall, with the strange shaped legs and feet of a large hound, and it’s head looked like a collie with the mange. Further, it was dressed in a leather jerkin with brass plates attached The creature’s large clawed hands extended to grapple or rend flesh.

The old man whirled under its hands and slashed at its midsection twice. As the fur and flesh parted from the blades, a greasy, almost liquid smoke oozed out and the figure collapsed in on itself.

“At least they can die,” Jon said, and then he was too busy to talk.

The creatures encircled them and tried to grab at them from all directions at once. The whirling techniques the old man had stressed so much proved to be the bane of the dog soldiers. The filthy smell of dog smoke filled the woods. When the beasts got past their guards and swiped with razor sharp claws, the slashes in their coats smoldered as if sprayed with acid.

One creature managed to grab the old man’s arm and bit him as he was dealing a death blow to another. The scratches were deep and blistered immediately, and the bite festered ominously. Howling with pain, the wizard hacked off the monster’s arm at the elbow. The clinging claw dropped to the forest floor and smoldered. From his pocket, the old man tossed a hand full of salt in a wide arc at the hounds. Where the salt touched them, it set them to smoldering and bawling from the pain of it. He quickly slapped salt into the wounds on his fore arm and roared his own pain.

Jon was avoiding the claws of the dog soldiers and hacking at anything they shoved in his direction. His blades whirling in a continual stroke, he waded into the biggest concentration of the creatures he could find. He paused only for a second, checking his father’s location, when both wrists were caught by a hulking brute with the head of a mastiff. The claws cut through his arm guards and into his wrists. The pain was like searing hot knives cutting through his tender flesh. He kicked at the creature grabbing at him from behind, while the mastiff suspended him by his wrists. The old man looked at him and barked. Without thinking, Jon reversed both blades in his grip, cutting through the forearms of his captor. The claws fell loose. Jon howled and dealt ruin to the hounds within reach of his deadly blades.

The old man had finished off his canine goons. Leather gear hung in shreds on his heavily panting, powerful frame. Searching desperately, he looked for the shrouded man that called the hounds to this plane of existence. The warlock had obviously fled during the melee. With a sharp downward stroke, he clove the foul smelling brazier in half and stomped out the smoldering coals on the damp forest floor. Leaning heavily on the makeshift altar with muscles bunching in his neck and shoulders, he gave a mighty heave and toppled it. Gasping, he took a moment to catch his breath, and crouched with his hands on his knees. From out of nowhere, a large log hit him squarely between his shoulders and dropped him, face first into the forest loam.
Seeing his father go down, Jonathan resumed his whirling attacks with renewed zeal. He couldn’t get past the cautious mutts who were staying just out of reach of his blades and attacking his exposed sides. His father was trying to get up, but the creatures were closing in on him before he could regain his feet. What if he couldn’t reach his father in time to save him?

It was then a curious sight revealed itself in the eerie red moonlight. All the silver charms and bosses on his father’s accouterments began to gleam with a blue-white light and glowing runic sigils wrapped his duster. From out of the woods, a brilliant blue-white globe the size of a hardball came whistling past him and hit the chief hound squarely between his eyes ripping the monster’s foul head clean from its shoulders. Sundog, his father’s faery friend had shown up in their hour of need.

The old man staggered to his feet, caught his breath and began whirling his remaining blade in a menacing arc around him. The foxfire comet continued launching itself at anything that would dare to approach the wounded wizard.

It seemed like a lifetime for the last of the red tinge to leave the surface of the full moon. It was approaching 1:00 am when the moonlight was clean again. A greasy fog covered the ground as Jon supported his father and limped back to the awaiting vehicles. Melanie was singing softly to little Gareth, who was feeding at her breast. James was burping Callum and quickly set him in his car seat and jumped to help them as they shuffled towards the four-by-four.

“Hey, guys, what happened?” James inquired. “It sounded like feeding time at the dog pound in there.”

“That sounds about right,” Jon quipped, “except something they tried to eat disagreed with them.”

“I feel like the chew toy from hell!” The old man chortled weakly. “I’m going to need to soak in salt water for a week to clean up this mess.”

“Did you get the witch responsible for the rift tonight?” Mel asked.

“Not for lack of trying, Sis.” Jon groaned. “but we were busier than a three headed fat boy in a candy store. He got away. Dad destroyed his altar and then they almost destroyed Dad. Sundog saved him.”

“Your dad’s not looking very good, Mel,” observed James.

The old man had slumped on the hood of the car and his skin looked unnaturally flushed. He was burning with a fever and soaking wet under his duster and hat.

“How do you feel, Jon?” Mel asked.

“Tired and sick, but I’ll make it,” he replied.

“You and James are going to have to carry him down to Kidron and cool him off in the stream.” Mel directed. “It would probably be wise if you sat and soaked with him when you get him in the water. The healing properties of that stream have resuscitated him from near death before. It can only help.”

They loaded old Storm into the hatch of the four-by-four and hauled him to the park north of the city. On the way, Melanie rubbed a stinging salve into their wounds from a jar in her purse and issued last minute instructions. They parked the vehicle in a cul-de-sac near the woods. Jon and James bundled the unconscious wizard down the trail to the stream. Melanie stayed in the car with the babies and prayed.

At the creek, they peeled off the duster and the hardware from the old man and sat him in a shallow, clay bottomed pool by a mossy bank. Jon stripped down to his jeans and eased in the pool with his father and cleaned the filth and gore from the both of them.

The first light of dawn was beginning to appear on the horizon when the old man regained consciousness.

“Whose idea was it to give me a cold bath in Kidron?” the old man demanded.

“Melanie said it was a sacred spring near Mother’s heart, and would heal you.” Jon replied.

“She’s a great choice for matriarch, don’t you think?” Father Storm smiled weakly, “and I was proud of you out there last night, son. I think the world will have another warrior mage worth his salt.”

“Just like my dad, huh?” Jon spread his arms to show all the wounds he had acquired last night.

“More than you know.” The old man coughed and smiled with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “So tell me, when someone asks you how you got those scars, what are you going to tell them?”

Jon grinned insanely at his father. So that was the reason for his off the wall explanations. From now on, this would be their private joke.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 28.01.2010

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