Barefoot Poetry

SS Matthews


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A Season of Wolves (Ch 3, Pt 1) A Mysterious Death

With the last rays of sunset fading from the flowering hillsides of June, as she did many evenings, Jeanne Boulet sat keeping watch over her family’s flock. Like most girls of fourteen years, Jeanne spent her idle hours considering what future the fates might have planned for her and what prospects for marriage might present themselves. On this particular evening however, fanciful imaginings were put aside as she debated whether or not to return home. It was not uncommon for the young shepherdess to spend the night in the company of her sheep; although her vigil was due in large part to a summer night’s solitude being preferable to the combative atmosphere of her household.

Vain and selfish, Jeanne’s mother, Claudette, believed she’d been forced to marry well below her anticipated station in life. Expressing disappointment with an ever-present scowl, even as a woman grown to maturity she continued to fantasize of life as an ingénue. Garbed in the latest fashions Paris might offer, in her daydreams she would wander the grand hallways of the royal court always the focus of a passionate intrigue. In these moments, when so distantly drawn from her farm-life fate, Claudette was almost bearable company.

Of late however, the matron’s mood turned toward the darkly morose with escalating outbursts of uncontrolled violence. Striking out with her hands and throwing about tableware, Claudette’s behavior was becoming ever more erratic. So bad had it become that for all of the past week Jeanne feared to share a roof with her, considering herself better off far removed from her mother’s presence.

Jeanne’s father however, was of completely opposite temperament. Lacking any formal education, Françoise was a simple man. Good of heart and honest, he did not share his wife’s disposition for violence. Only when earnestly threatened or provoked would he place his hands upon another. What he did want was for his family to have those comforts they desired, but unfortunately could only provide those resulting from his endless hours of labor.

Loving his daughter dearly for her vibrant personality and ability to find charm in the common things life might offer; in Françoise’s eyes Jeanne could do no wrong. Yet being forever on the receiving end of his wife’s saber edged tongue, he lived in dread of provoking her and coming to his daughter’s defense, which seemed almost daily of late, inevitably resulted in another of Claudette’s hysterical episodes. So as to avoid engaging her mother’s brawling temperament, and likely a beating for abandoning her charges in exchange for mere comforts of the hearth, Jeanne elected to remain another night among her flock.


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Vale of the Fallen Moon (intro)

Wearing a blouse of linen dyed blue, paired with black ox-hide trousers and riding boots, the stranger sat astride a tall stallion the color of an autumn sunset. His hair, a shade of pre-midnight, hung straight past his shoulders, framing sharp, pale features and eyes that mirrored the sky. Coming to a halt, his hands came to rest upon the stallion’s back. Slumped slightly forward, the boy could see either the over-long hilt of a sword, or possibly the stump of a demon’s wing protruding over his shoulder. Whichever one it might be, thinking the Angel of Death was upon him William wondered why the devil was smiling.

“Do you have a name boy?”

As if searching for a memory distant, the boy hesitated a moment before pronouncing, “My name’s Will.”

“That’s a fine name for a brave lad. You are alone and very far from your village?”

“I can look after myself.”

Appreciating the boy’s defiant tone, the rider thought that at one time he would’ve answered very much the same.

“Who do you safeguard?” The rider voiced the question with a tone that would not brook evasion.

“Only the witch.”

“What witch is that?”

“The Singing Witch.”

Clamping a hand to his mouth, as if trying to trap a secret already set free, a chagrined look crossed Will’s face. Rowan could tell he was ready to run.

“My name is Rowan. I’m not after your witch, but your snare on the hillside has entangled a dancing hare. If you don’t mind some company, I’ll build a fire while you fetch it?”

“You’re not here to take me?”

“No Will, I’m not here for that.”

SS Matthews

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This stand alone short story is chapter 2 of Wolfe’s Bane


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Thief Saga – Jewel of Night part 1&2

Jewel of Night

Part 1

A spell is best cast upon those who believe,
that power through practice of magic achieves
superior craft when one’s talent is rare
to call from the shadows what things you might dare.

A firm non-believer may discount results,
never-the-less beware the occult.
Dabbling in darkness may offer a thrill,
but lurking within are things that can kill.

From velvet chambers she conjures a Name,
invading my night with her summoning game.
Called from my card play to heed her demand.
Does she think me novice and hers to command?

For here’s a magician awake in the night,
able to shine an experienced light
on some would-be sorceress testing her fate
by compelling a demon to dance for a date.

A trio of knaves I fold with a frown
placing a threesome of winners face down.
Gambling for coin requires no heart.
I make no excuses, just rise and depart.

The curse that I carry does grant me a boon.
To spells of control I am nearly immune.
When muttered at midnight amidst full array,
even a specter might fail to delay.

Some find me more than a shadowy spell.
Some even think me an agent of Hell.
Her witch-work is potent and tough to defend,
drawing me into a this contact with men.

The stench on the street is nearly to much.
Streets should be vacant of riff-raff and such.
As torches of pitch throw their intricate weaves
of shadows down alleys, the playground of thieves.

I spot the two bullies, clubs poised to transfer
cherished possessions from my hands to hers.
Did they think me easy, a target of sport?
My dagger by moonlight will swiftly retort.

Dull eyes from darkness leer red in the night.
Mistress of magic how deadly your plight?
Fool of a bully, come fill then your grave.
Torch-light I wrap and reflect from my blade.

This phantom is more than some ox at the block,
this fine cloaked pedestrian’s head you would knock.
A blur is my answer, your mate must now grieve.
Red eyes roll upward and blood stains my sleeve.

What vanity drove you to wear this grave face?
Your thug-mate retreats at full speed from this place.
Fleeing this figment of death’s steel caress
may save him some breath and sudden arrest.

I’ve no time for chasing a wet-legged fool.
The witch that awaits me by her gazing pool
will see by the shadows a-swirl that I come
and wonder if mayhap her deed is undone.

Part 2

Arcane reminders to visit by day
circle her threshold and would keep at bay
most any practitioner of ill intent.
By spoiling their purpose my message is sent.

Withering sigils, well-crafted in blue,
might stymie the best, but I weave and pass through.
Having shadows for allies provides me an edge
to slash through illusion when out on the ledge.

As final announcement alerting the lass,
the old oaken door cries aloud as I pass.
Faintly a glow from her corridor’s end,
warns me away from invading her den.

A pentagram smoldering crimson conforms
to a waxwork geometry set round her floor.
Surrounded by candles reflecting her gaze,
she stands in her witch-light miasma ablaze.

Feeling secure when ringed by designs,
an elegant mistress of dark paradigm.
The envy of monarchs is won by her stare.
The envy of ravens is won by her hair.

Black is her raiment, black as her frown.
a web-work of lace to suffice as a gown,
Youthful and supple, I study her form;
voluptuous assets with skin pale but warm.

My interest reveals her control near its ebb.
She lifts from a table a bowl brimming red.
“Hold witch!” My dagger tip tickles my palm,
“You got lucky once, be still and keep calm.”

Her mouth sags to open, her robe reveals all.
A practiced beguilement, a trick to forestall.
I should not indulge the shape of her thigh.
“You’ve brought us together, I want to know why!”

I send forth a thought. She winces in pain.
Feeling my power she utters a name.
“No one can help you, but he whom you face.
Last time I’m asking, the truth, every trace.”

“You have many secrets of vigor and youth,
while other men stumble about most uncouth.
Fables surround you and legend’s your name.
I crave to learn these, to be just the same.”

“So is it my talents you say that you need?
Lying is painful, might cause you to bleed.
Your story, I will with spells, rip from your mind.
You’ve kept me this long, yes, I have the time.”

“Onto the table witch! Off with that robe!
Look not so shocked when acting so bold.”
A light from my hands quells her every protest.
She did as I bid and I did the rest.

Her story she utters in mutters and moans.
My real adversary stands right of the throne.
I left her to dreaming amidst her designs.
Magic has uses, yeah, magic like mine.

Barefoot Poetry
SS Matthews


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Thief Saga – Jewel of Night pt. 1

Jewel of Night

the sea witch by frank frazetta
The Sea Witch by Frank Frazetta

A spell is best cast upon those who believe,
that power through practice of magick achieves
superior craft when one’s talent is rare
to call from the shadows what things you might dare.

A firm non-believer may discount result,
never-the-less beware the occult.
Dabbling in darkness may offer a thrill,
but lurking within are things that can kill.

From velvet chambers she conjures a Name,
invading my night with her summoning game.
Called from my card play to heed her demand.
Does she think me novice and hers to command?

For here’s a magician awake in the night,
able to shine an experienced light
on a would=be sorceress testing her fate.
by compelling a demon to dance for a date.

A trio of knaves I fold with a frown
placing the threesome of winners face down.
Gambling for coin requires no heart.
I give no excuses, just rise and depart.

Some find me more than a shadowy spell.
Some even think me an agent of Hell.
The curse that I carry does grant me this boon
To spells of control I am nearly immune.

Yet muttered at midnight amidst full array,
even a specter is urged to obey.
Her witch=work is potent and tough to defend,
leading me into this contact with men.

The stench on the street is nearly too much.
Streets should be vacant of riff-raff and such.
Torches of pitch throw their intricate weaves
of shadows down alleys, the playground of thieves.

I spot the two bullies, clubs poised to transfer
cherished possessions from my hands to hers.
Dull eyes from darkness leer red in the night.
Mistress of magick how deadly your plight?

Did they think me easy, a target of sport?
My dagger by moonlight will swiftly retort.
Fool of a bully, come fill then your grave.
Torch-light I wrap and reflect from my blade.

This phantom is more than some ox at the block,
this fine cloaked pedestrian’s head you would knock.
A blur is my answer, your mate must now grieve.
Red eyes roll upward and blood-stains my sleeve.

Your thug-mate retreats at full speed from this place.
What vanity drove you to wear this grave face?
Fleeing this figment of death’s steel caress
may save him some breath and sudden arrest.

I’ve no time for chasing a wet-legged fool.
The witch that awaits me by her gazing pool
will see by the shadows a-swirl that I come
and wonder if mayhap her deed is undone.

Arcane reminders to visit by day
circle her threshold and would keep at bay
most any practitioner of dark design.
I tingle a little, but cross it just fine.

Withering sigils, well-crafted in blue,
might stymie the best, but I weave and pass through.
Having shadows for allies does give me an edge
for shredding illusion when placed on the ledge.

Barefoot Poetry of
SSMatthews


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A Season of Wolves Ch. 2 / Pt. 5 The Witches of Malzieu

Set upon by a trio of female assailants, the maid was attacked and knocked to the ground. Beaten until she could not stand, she was assisted to her feet, falling twice before being bodily dragged. Lashed to a sapling for the purpose of burning, it was at that point Antoinette’s true torture began. As if no more than a diseased animal they cut at her. In testament to this, lying on the ground like a symbol of their hatred was the abandoned reavening sickle used to abuse her.

Furthermore, her assailants had been free from any sense of haste. Rather, upon discovering a wicked enjoyment in carving at the defenseless girl, they had taken their time. All of this was made clear by the clues left behind. The puzzling part of the grotesquery however, the part that called for an intuitive explanation, was that not all of the prints in the area belonged to the women. In light of this discovery, why the fire was never lit and their departure so sudden seemed quite understandable.

By shape, I would have thought the prints belonging to a wolf of incredible size and most unusual design. Counting six toes upon each paw, with four forward and a pair facing rear, I knew of no creature in the animal kingdom that could account for them. Standing on four feet, it may have equaled the height of the tallest of the women. Its sudden appearance would certainly have given them the fright of their lives.

Leading both towards and then away from the tree to which the unfortunate girl was bound, the tracks indicated that upon reaching her position, the animal had risen up onto its rearmost legs. Resting his forepaws on the girl’s shoulders or chest, he had taken the time to kick away much of the kindling from around her. Balanced directly before the trussed and helpless maid, the beast had then performed a diabolical mating.

Abused and bleeding her life away, anyone might deduce that the unfortunate Antoinette became the first victim of the monstrous wolf of Gévaudan. But what I witnessed advised me differently. Upon reaching her, the beast had stood on his rearmost legs so that he might ravish her. The evidence, though of a delicate nature, was clearly presented and hardly mistakable. Due to the girl’s already wounded state however, I could not determine if intercourse was forced or solicited.

Impossible as it might seem to imagine, for some unknown reason the idea came to me that while delirious from the loss of blood and distraught from the hurt of jealous harm, Antoinette might actually have invited the beast to partake of her. Recognizing him as a creature not of this world, perhaps she even implored him even to drink of her blood and afterwards render his bite, so she might herself arise and walk at his side as a wolf of the night!

Shaking the unbidden and unwelcome image from my mind, as unlikely a mystery as this was to reconcile, I could find no evidence that Antoinette had at any point been dragged or carried from that place. After all she’d been through, certainly she had not walked unaided, that is to say, I could find no evidence that she’d managed to walk away on her own two feet.

What I did find indicated the unreal possibility that she had walked away on four. Otherwise, how should I explain a mysteriously appearing second set of wolf-tracks? Beginning abruptly at the base of the sapling, they led but in one direction. Undeniably they were the prints of a she-wolf and departed the tragic scene by leading away into the forest.

*A Pagan song of midsummer; Eliza Cook’s Journal

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A Season of Wolves Ch. 2 / Pt. 4 The Witches of Malzieu

Perhaps it was a howl, a growl, or just the sound of paws approaching that distracted them. Regardless of which, the sudden appearance of a large and menacing wolf-like animal put a halt to the proceedings. Enormous in size and of imposing feature, it was now the turn of the three women to tremble in fear. With crimson colored fur and eyes looking like lanterns of fiery death, it emerged from the veil of dusk putting the trio to immediate flight.

So unearthly and savage was it in appearance, that I’m sure the beast had no need of showing further aggression toward the women. Certainly they believed the devil was upon them and like the stroke of a saber, fear readily severed their tether to hatred. Stricken with such panic that two of the three fouled themselves, Claudette and her companions fled the site of desecration in want of their lives.

Although unable to complete the act of witch-burning, I’ve no reason to believe that any of the three involved ever spoke a word of what they had seen. Certainly they never told another of abandoning the young witch to the mercy of the beast. Only by chance was it that I came upon the scene two days in the aftermath. So excepting myself and one other, the fate of Antoinette Debaraz was likely never mentioned or even speculated upon.

Having been successful in hunting a stag of reasonable measure, I set out to deliver a fresh packet of venison to Antoinette’s cottage. Finding her away from home, I chanced upon her footprints and decided to follow them through the wood. Leading to a clearing that seemed an obvious witch-hold, at first exposure I could hardly comprehend what it was I beheld.

Discovering Antoinette’s clothing upon the ground appearing purposely trampled, I came to realize that no ritual of worship had last taken place there. Stunned by the horror of what lay before me, with unhurried and careful action, I made a thorough study of the area. Isolating and retracing the movements of each actor involved, the brutal nature of the performance became clear.

Arriving at the sapling still tangled with twine and piled round with wood, my wretched heart was taken by grief and gnawed by anger. The purpose of the wood pile was apparent, but splashed with many droplets of blood, it also bespoke of despicable torture. The details of a dire play told a story of foulest conception.

By this time in my life, I had long ago deduced that where the passions of men and their female counterparts are involved reason will hold uncertain reign, but even so, there was something more here than could be sanely reconciled. Even should I be able to correctly interpret, and in some way accept, the nightmarish treatment of an innocent maid, the tale as I could read it was as yet without conclusion. Sad a scene as it was, the resolution should be obvious. The girl Antoinette, though dead, should lie somewhere about. But what I saw stood in defiance of rational explanation. Strange as it may sound, after considering the evidence, this is what my deductions led me to consider.

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A Season of Wolves Ch. 2 / Pt. 3 The Witches of Malzieu

Mesmerized by her work, with long, almost caressing strokes of her sickle, Claudette began to cut at her victim. Her intent being murderous, she wanted more than anything to flay the hide from the girl’s still breathing body. Reveling in the blood as it flowed onto her hands, she gave no more heed to the horrified protests of her companions than she did to the agonized screams of the young witch as they rolled echoing through the forest.

It may be that those torturous cries were heard by Antoinette’s coven sisters approaching through the wood and upon hearing such terrible screams, who could fault them for fleeing? I can only imagine that such wailing was enough to convince them that they too were at risk and with darkness falling around the tragic tableau, there seemed no one else who might aid the girl in her desperate distress.

Not long thereafter, the pitch of her anguished cries faded to whimpers and then ceased altogether. The respite was not because the blood-thirsty Claudette had tired of her work, or even heeded the reservations of her friends. Mercifully, Antoinette fainted from the pain and could no longer feel the awful brush of the breeze blowing across her raw flesh.

Standing in awe at the handiwork of their friend, Renee and Elizabeth were appalled, but also spellbound by the gruesome brutality of the scene. Unlike Claudette who was accustomed to the baser elements of a life involving animal husbandry, being of the city neither of the two women had been exposed to the horrors of this sort of bloodshed. Both found it to be terrifying, but were none the less drawn to its awful fascination.

Being a sometimes hunter of wolves, I know it to be aberrant for the beasts to covet the blood of humans. Normally, they will only consider humans as prey when all other sources of sustenance are exhausted. If the animals on which they predate become scarce, they will either move away, or creep closer to the livestock that men keep. Although this second will sometimes bring the two into contact, wolves will target animals long before risking a confrontation with man.

In spite of this knowledge, it might be that the combination of Antoinette’s blood scenting through the forest and her pitiful cries were what first attracted the beast to the scene. It might also be argued that Antoinette was a sorceress of such potency, that in her terrible anguish she conjured forth a dark and horrible savior. Still, knowing her as my own savoir, I believe it impossible for her to wish such harm upon another, even while being tortured by them.

Perhaps, it was that already in route to the meeting place of the witches, Satan himself happened upon the scene and finding Antoinette in a decidedly helpless state, formed a plan to use her to his advantage. Although certainly the deeds of the three women were sufficient to have opened a doorway of blood by which he arrived; a route by which evil could invade Gévaudan and see it drenched in crimson fear. Quite possibly it was their jealous actions that ushered into our province the awful plague of tragedies that followed. It is my belief however, that the beast appeared as part of a different plan, one set in motion long before that fateful night.

Meanwhile, believing the girl already near death, the three women were not yet willing to be robbed the witnessing of her burning. Being inexperienced at woodcraft, for several moments they struggled in the attempt to set fire to the damp tinder of their makeshift pyre. So it was that before succeeding in igniting an irreversible spark, they were interrupted by an unexpected visitor.

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A Season of Wolves Ch.2/Pt. 2 The Witches of Malzieu

Witch Burning by Granat Olga
witch-burning-by-granat-olga

Devising a plan by which they might rid themselves of the girl’s distracting influence, at her next opportunity Renee secretly followed Antoinette through the woods to her home. Hiding near the cottage and taking note of the girl’s predilection for witchcraft, a conspiracy was born. At her next meeting with Claudette and Elizabeth, between the three women they formed a plan that would rid them of their concerns. Choosing both the moment and course of action, they conspired in secret to kill the imagined contender for their husbands’ affections. Once ready to implement their plan of vengeance, the night they chose to engineer the girl’s undoing was Midsummer’s Eve.

Assigned the task of gathering wood for the balefire, this duty was part of ‘setting the watch’ for the celebration of Saint John’s Eve. As part of her initiation ritual, another might have found the work a drudgery, but for Antoinette the activity gave her pleasure and she went joyfully about it.

With the evening being warm and her skin dampened with sweat, she removed her clothing and lay them aside as not to soil the fabric. Upon returning to the task, with arms fully loaded she was set upon by the vindictive Claudette and her fellow conspirators. Outnumbered and surprised, Antoinette was readily overpowered and pushed to the ground. Before she could again rise, she was subdued by the three vexed women, suffering repeated blows from the hands and feet of her tormentors.

Having made her scratched and bruised, after initially venting their anger by striking at the girl, the trio was not yet finished with their plan. Lifting the girl up from the ground by her arms, they drug her half-conscious body to a sapling where they bound her with twine. Fueled by envy, the wives of Malzieu were determined to carry out a ritual of their own.

It was known to them that the burning of a witch had been banned by the court of King Louis, even so, the fire scorching their jealous hearts could only be quenched with flames. Afterwards, without the fair girl to dote over, surely the straying attention of their husbands would return where they belonged. At the same time they would be ridding themselves of a sorceress. To the reasoning of the three women it seemed a just and fitting solution to their problems.

Fully aware that if their actions should be found out, they would be punished, perhaps even hanged, the women knew this secret must be eternally keep between them. But such was the awful passion that drove them, that the danger incurred was not enough to dissuade them. So powerful was their unreasoning hate that each in turn agreed to a solemn pact.

While Renee and Elizabeth set about repositioning the wood Antoine had gathered around the bound girl’s feet, Claudette produced a tool of reaping from the pocket of her apron. Brandishing the steel with spiteful taunts, she began to nick at the skin of the naked girl with its sharp and cutting point. Upon seeing the blood well and trickle in response to her aggression, a dark and insidious passion took hold of the woman’s mind.


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A Thief Saga Poem – Tower Entrapment

thPGD2F97R

Morning’s eye watches yon tower of church,
setting warm rays on her high window perch.
Imprisoned by prayers and secrets well kept,
she stares through the noon-day with many tears wept.

A fantasy eve of mid-summer, restrained,
to languish within, to stark halls constrained.
Fire-haired princess of youth captivate,
dreaming of saviors which come not too late.

I watch from seclusion, confusion of trees,
a mottled illusion caught up by the breeze
which carry the hillside’s flowers and herbs
in scented commotion combining with hers.

I wait for the sun to fall overhead
and fold back the down of her west crimson bed,
Awaken companions I’ve need to fulfill
The task undertaken? A quest up yon hill.

A fair purse of gold he will pay for her hand
if taken from tower into his rich land.
He’ll bind her to keeping a-right his great hall.
He has yet to learn cells consist of four walls.

A handmaid, or mistress, a slave, or a wife!
What could be worse than abandoned by life?
Would I still be a man if completely alone,
or track like a beast on the land that I roam?

Into the landscape I blend with a yawn,
blending with meadow and moat and beyond
into a graveyard with draperies drawn,
commanding the shadows to rush me along.

Weaving a mixture of dim light and dark
disguising my movement, no flicker, no spark,
suggesting my presence, revealing intent,
I slide with the shadows betraying no hint.

A spiraling stairway of lichen on block,
leading me upward and into her loft.
Alone on divan and in sultry repose
half-covered in satin the color of rose.

A twitch of red lips, faint flutter of lids,
a gossamer gown, ample curves scarcely hid,
shift my soft values to velvet from gold,
I cannot be trusted, or so I am told.

Unwrapped in moonbeams across portal’s sill
I take this woman from need into thrill.
Twined in her hair is a trace of old dust,
I’m wound in the clutch of a lush succubus.

Her power is on me, my will she would drain,
but I am a power by night and I gain,
with strenuous effort control of my lust,
turning the mood to silence and rust.

Fetal on flagstones, a demon unveiled,
a tool of the Dark Prince I’ve hammered and nailed.
This sumptuous chamber, a cage she’ll not leave,
Lightfinger’s shadow-play game she must grieve.

For dawn is a nemesis I must abate.
Will she remember, perhaps she will hate,
the sneak-thief who fled with her power in haste,
the thief in the night whose shadow she traced?

I ignite a lone candle to burn for my sins.
I’ve a passion for candles and will sin again.
Forgiveness is one thing myself, I must find
I’ll not find it here in this prison divine.

This vault of salvation has lock I can’t pick.
Abode of the humble in which I don’t fit.
A church should be sacred to creatures of light,
not subject to monsters who walk in the night

SS Matthews Barefoot Poetry


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A Season of Wolves Ch.2/Pt. 1 The Witches of Malzieu

hedge witch 1

*The young maid stole through the cottage door,
And blushed as she sought the Plant of Power;
“Thou silver glow-worm, O lend me thy light,
I must gather the mystic St. John’s Wort tonight,
The wonderful herb, whose leaf will decide,
If the coming year shall make me a bride.”
*A Pagan song of midsummer; Eliza Cook’s Journal

Emerging through the door to her own cottage, in sweet tones Antoinette Debaraz gaily voiced her own song of Midsummer celebration. Now a maiden of eighteen years, her heart was light and filled with the promise of dreams to be fulfilled. Taking to a pathway, she felt no urgency as she made her way along the familiar trail. Often she would pause to gather herbs of interest, or to simply visit with the creatures of the forest.

As this was to be a special night in her young life, a night of marvelous events, there was a skipping spring to her stride as she made her way to the appointed meeting place. With her novice year of service complete, the advent of dusk would see her initiated into the coven of sisters. Upon commencement of the ceremony, the reigning priestess of the Sisters of Melusine would scourge, purify and then welcome her with the sacred kisses. At the conclusion of which she would be fully vested in the practice of forest witchcraft and privy to every secret enchantment the group had to share.

As for the coven, they were overjoyed to receive the maiden into their company. It was not a secret to them that more so than any other, including the matron crone herself, Antoinette was of a talent born. Familiar with a great many herbs and how to combine them, even without benefit of formal training the girl had already possessed remarkable instincts and a reputation as an accomplished healer. Upon introduction to the finer points of the art, she’d rapidly proven herself masterful in synthesizing the details of every art. Readily she memorized the words and motions required in divination, the gestures and intensity of focus needed in the performance of rituals. So adept was she at the craft, that already the others held hope she would one day ascend to the station of high priestess.

Her understanding of the web of dependence between living things and their relationship with the unseen world was certainly precocious. This was made manifest by her creativity in the design of incantation. Her talent exceeded the efforts of most artificers who’d labored before her and it was believed by her mentor, that if there was one among them who could unite the scattered and frightened witches of France into an organized coalition, it would be Antoinette.

Much like me, it was by choice that the girl remained a recluse of the wilderness and since the time of our first meeting, it had became a practice of mine to pay occasional visits to the girl. Being ever in her debt and gifted with her friendship, I would leave her with packages of venison and useful items that resulted from my hunts. Sometimes we would talk and she would tell me of the power and properties of certain plants. Thus her youthful mastery of many crafts was already plain even unto me, a man mostly ignorant of magical byways.

With those things that I brought to her and the bounty of her gardens, it was none the less necessary at times for her to make her way into the city. Being a girl of exceeding beauty and intelligence, it might surprise some that Antoinette would prefer to live alone. She was however, a being of such bright spirit that she did not suffer from loneliness and only at need did she brave the congested streets of Malzieu. When the necessity did arise she was not prone to tarry, for all too often she would encounter vulgar men avid to lust after her.

Falling under the spell of her natural allure and bountiful charms, without pity these men would press her for her favor. Without pause they would badger the girl in hopes of winning the coveted prize of her virginity. Being a maiden of chastity and innocent in the ways of carnality, Antoinette would spurn their unsolicited advances. Too often her rejection of them resulted in rousing not only the anger of would-be suitors, but an insidious spitefulness. Unrelenting, their bold persistence would sometimes escalate to ruder forms of attention.

Though earnestly alarmed by the attention, she was never seen to use spells in her defense against them, even those times when it became necessary for her to physically fight her way free. So it happened that upon one such occasion, Françoise Boulet, a farmer and keeper of sheep, came also to the marketplace in the company of his wife, Claudette. As Françoise was a man of simple education and poor at conversation, his wife would relish these opportunities to visit with her friends in the city and share in their gossip. While going about his business however, Françoise happened to spy the girl in distress. Cornered on the street by a pair of uncouth men, she was struggling to break free of them as they went about tugging at her clothing.

To Françoise it appeared the men were daring enough to assault her on the open street in the broad light of day. Feeling their actions an insult to common decency, Boulet approached the scene, took up one of the men by the collar and seat of his pants then tossed the ruffian rudely onto his face in the dirt. The second offender was so taken aback by the action that he decided to flee before receiving a similar scolding.

In gratitude, Antoinette gave to Françoise a brief and innocent embrace before hurrying away. Observing the incident however, Claudette became instantly furious. Sharing her dismay with friends Renee and Elizabeth, these same two women reported to have witnessed their own husbands fawning after the girl. Feeding upon one another’s resentment of masculine betrayal and distrust of Antoinette’s youthful glow, all three expressed extreme displeasure at their men being bewitched by the maiden’s comely appearance. Born of a common jealousy, in secret they united in a liaison of intent.