Prophecy

The baby Holly burbled in her little chair as she tried to cram her little wooden horse into her mouth. The mother, Sunny, sang to her quietly as she did the dishes. And the witches of the house, Esther, Ethyl, and Miriam, were brewing a horrible potion, doing her stitching, and napping upstairs, respectively.

Sunny had come to the witches out of desperation, although not the particular kind they were used to. She had been done up by the son of a noble, who had then declared that any child growing inside Sunny had nothing to do with him. And who was to argue with the son of a noble? Certainly not her parents, who decided if their daughter could not give them the name of the father – never mind that she had, repeatedly, at the top of her throat – then the child was obviously of the devil’s, and they would have no spawn under their roof.

“Where would I go?” Sunny had asked before they had closed the door on her for good.

“The convent is a day’s walk in that direction,” her father had pointed. And then, with a smirk, had pointed the other way. “Or you could go to the Stellae Sisters. I’m sure they’d take in a child of their master.”

Deciding that a convent was no place to raise a baby, let alone a place she wanted to spend all of her time, Sunny had gathered up her things and walked to the Stellae.

“Well, she ain’t a child of the devil,” Esther had said months later with a cackle, holding the newborn out to the exhausted new mother. “Doesn’t have the old goat’s eyes.”

Sunny always wanted to show the witch’s her appreciation by joining them, learning something, working for the family business, as it were. But no matter how much she tried she couldn’t pull off even the simplest parlor trick. She paid back the kindness by keeping house and giving angry locals the runaround.

“Sunny,” Esther said, staring at her ingredients rack in the corner of the kitchen. “Mind getting me more mustard seed the next time you’re in market?”

“Oh, Aunt Esther, I already did.” Sunny crossed the kitchen wiping her hands on her apron. “Did I misplace it? Or dream it? Ah, no, here we are.”

She plucked the packet from where it had fallen behind the shelf.

“Mind reader,” Esther said. “Hiding magic again, are we?”

It was a joke between them, one that Sunny pretended didn’t sting. She would do magic. If she could.

“Sisters! Oh, sisters!”

Miriam came down the stairs, half running, half falling, one hand holding up her gown and the hand on the wall holding up her. Esther put down the mustard, and Ethyl, who had been dozing herself over her stitching, woke up with a start and half-flung her work onto the floor.

“What is it, Miriam?”

“Sunny, get the paper and the inkwell, quick!” Miriam pulled herself up to full height, ignoring the way her thin hair pointed in every direction known to man and some only known to the occult. “I have heard…a prophecy.”

While Sunny ducked into the side nook to find the paper and quill, Esther quickly put her things away and Ethyl clapped her hands in front of her.

“Oh, a prophecy! Haven’t had one of those in…my, I can’t remember how long it’s been!”

“Seventy years, at least,” Esther said, sitting down at the table. “For the last king.”

Ethyl made a face. “The one with the lazy eyes and the temper?”

“Yes, him. I believe we told him if he raised his daughter to be a queen instead of a princess she would bear sons and the kingdom would stay with his family.”

Sunny set up the paper and ink in front of her, ready to write. Their country’s current ruler had taken over some forty years ago in a rather bloody coup, so it would seem the lazy-eyed king hadn’t listened to advice.

“Okay, Aunt Miriam,” Sunny said, holding up a pen.

The woman had been standing at the other end of the table, mumbling to herself over and over, trying to keep the words in her mind. She put it all together, and spoke slowly so Sunny could follow.

“I heard… ‘If the king of Palomia starts a war with Agete, they will defeat Agete, but enough of Agete’s sons and daughters will survive, and will return and destroy Palomia once and for all.”

Sunny read the words back to Miriam to make sure she had it correct. Miriam nodded and for the first time since waking relaxed.

“Where the hell is my pipe?” she muttered, poking around the part of the kitchen she thought she had left it.

“I wonder if the king is already thinking of starting something,” Ethyl said.

“We should find out,” Esther said. “It’ll change the way we tell him.”

“What’s the matter, dear?” Miriam asked as she lit her pipe.

At the table, Sunny was still reading the words she had written, the words that had come to Miriam in a dream. A frown had crossed her face, one she hadn’t been aware of. She blushed and waved a hand.

“It’s nothing.”

“No, no, daughter, if you have a question, speak up!”

Still sitting in her chair on the floor, Holly babbled and laughed.

“See, granddaughter gets it. Now you.”

“Well,” Sunny started, tapping the page in front of her. “It’s just…I guess…aren’t prophecies usually more…poetic than this?”

The sisters all exchanged looks with each other before bursting into laughter. Holly joined in, laughing louder than any of the women.

“They don’t come that way!” Miriam said. “They come like this. Plain statements of facts. But do you know what men in power think of women who come to them with plain words?”

“Orders!” Ethyl said, and then lowered her voice into something gruff and rather stupid. “How dare you think you can tell me what to do! Only I tell me what to do!”

“We tried giving royalty the original prophecies in the past,” Esther said. She held up her arm so Sunny could see the lingering burn scars climbing up past the elbows. “It doesn’t work.”

“So, we are the ones who pretty it up!” Miriam said. “Make it a little vague, too. Like there’s some clue they have to work out. That always gets them.”

“This is always the hardest part,” Esther sighed. “None of are particularly inclined in the way of word making. Hopefully this war the king might start isn’t going to start tomorrow.”

Sunny held the paper in front of her, letting the light from the kitchen window shine through. She thought of the poems she’d spent hours writing in childhood, the ones she hid from her parents lest they rip them off.

She smiled. This was how she would help.

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