At fourteen summers, she was ready, and surely she was glad to be second daughter to the chief and not first. For her sister Cordaella, as chief's first daughter, was thereby Royal Woman of the tribe, whose husband would some day be king, and such things cannot be left to chance and mere liking.
Well, Cordaella was newly married and seemed pleased enough with the choice that the elders had made. But Saba, second daughter, could, in the way of things, choose for herself. And of all the young warriors, her eye had turned upon tall Brychan, he of the gray eyes and mouse-pale hair.
Someday I'll have a garage sale and sell off all my witch kitsch.
I've got boxes of it. Some I bought myself. The rest came from friends, down the years. Boxes and boxes.
Don't get me wrong. I love the Season of the Witch. With maybe just a little help from the Brothers Grimm, Halloween has pretty much single-handedly kept the figure of the witch present in the cultural memory. Outsiders we may be eleven months out of twelve, but come That Time of Year and suddenly everyone's an honorary.
They say that when the Moon, Mother of Witches, gave birth to the tribe of Witches, she looked into the water to see what the life of her first-born people would be. And there she saw sorrow, black sorrow; and there she saw joy, golden joy.
Then she wept a mother's tears for her first-born people, for what may be and what must be. From her left eye fell tears of black sorrow; they fell to the ground and were jet. From her right eye fell tears of golden joy; they fell to the sea and were amber.
So the great ones among us wear necklaces of amber and jet to this day; and whoever carries upon him the black tears or the golden will always draw her eye to him, for from her eye they came.