The Witches #1

 The air was still, yet the trees shifted and whispered, filling the air with a mysterious song of secrets and wonder.

It was as if, to those who moved on foot or wing through the forest, a spell was being cast and any moment the spirits of the trees would reveal themselves, stepping out from their homes in gowns and suits of bark and moss, movements willowy and soft, voices like that of leaves rustling.

Indeed the deeper you went into the forest the more potent this magic felt, shivering off the ground, filling the air with pine and oak and something else, harder to pinpoint…

Magic, probably.

Of the three witches traipsing through the forest, the one most likely to become absorbed in such things knelt every few seconds and plucked here a leaf, there a flower - even once a mushroom covered log that she doggedly balanced in her arms, refusing help and struggling not to drop all of her finds until a second witch flicked a finger and the log became weightless and happily floated after them. The witch Daphne, face pink, continued her collecting in happy ease, gathering this and that and humming to herself in bliss.

The second witch, with an eye on the floating branch after noticing how it nearly flattened the final member of their trio - surely an unhelpful happening in the befriending of a tense bird - searched the forest with narrowed eyes, focus and excitement in her gaze as she looked beyond the speckled mushrooms and beetles and searched for something more, something particular, something… there. Running the last few feet, the witch Lilac stopped before a towering pine, ancient and gnarled, encircled by innocent looking, rust hued mushrooms that would glow with their own kind of magic when night fell.

She smiled, bowed to the spirit of the forest, as old as time, and began to climb. She found footholds where others would not, weaving this way and that, the tree her partner in a dance for only them. She moved so fast and with such certainty that she was soon out of sight, smile never leaving her face.

The third witch, newly befriended bird perched on her shoulder, looked at the forest with awe and beaming joy, seeing, unlike her sisters, something unique to her; not for her were the ingredients and scents, the tree with its luminous spores and secret pathway. The forest had its own story for her, a story of nests and trails known only to the rabbits and moles, prints and discarded feathers waiting to be discovered. She spoke in whispers to a squirrel, spotted a sleepy owl and a cranky possum, and by the time the witch Tulip was standing before the old pine with her sisters - one with three long branches at her feet, collected from the top of the tree, the other with arms full of an assortment of flora that had spoken to her senses and soul - she had not only the small bird on one shoulder but a squirrel on the other, a raven flying lazily behind and six or seven field mice at her feet.

The witches stood together, shoulder to shoulder, listening as the forest spoke to them in heartbeat, rustle, sigh and stir, its words telling stories of magic and fable, of witches before and of witches that would follow their lead in the years to come. It spoke of aching hearts, fear and anger, of love and hope and spirit; most of all it spoke of this moment, right now, of magic and choices and friendship, its words a language the three spoke though few others did.

The forest and its inhabitants welcomed them as daughters and friends, urging them to begin the work they had been preparing for all this time.

The animals, wood sprites (who had slipped noiselessly from their homes and followed the witches with curiosity and shy eyes) and even a small dragon, petite and quite the most curious of them all, gathered round at a respectful distance, settling in to watch quite a different magic.

The first witch brought forth her prized flora, delicate flowers, soft moss, reliable ivy; the second presented her branches, three favours granted only to her; the third gave the fleetness of foot, the smooth flight of wing, the secrets the animals had whispered to her

And there, in the sanctuary of the forest, the witches fashioned brooms for themselves. They imbued them with love and hope, shaped them carefully with guidance from the trees, decorated and discussed and crafted until all three could fly as one.

It was a sight to behold.

They flew and laughed and created an entirely new form of magic simply by sharing their skills, friendship and love.

The Witches is a serial story, published every week on Thursday/Friday. See you then!