neach beach


Late afternoon brought spackled hues of splayed light streaming into birch nest. Gormglaith woke up when Raoghnailt stirred behind her, sighed and tightened her grip with reedy arms.

"How'dst tha sleep?"

Gormglaith trundled over. Raoghnailt's face was puffy from slumber, flaxen hair kerfuffle, eyes periwinkle blue and brightening. Gormglaith squinted across the cozily sleek, sprawling lair and settled a gaze back on Raoghnailt.

"Like a stone."

She plopped her head down, straw blond thatch hiding her face.

"So Bairrfhionn was here a little while ago. She didn't want to wake thee but said... 'Tell the wicked witch she might haunt the dens after she's had breakfast.' Rhiamon Rush has been bamfing in and out asking for thee and I think they want to like, clue thee in before thou meetst the hag."

The thatch didn't stir for some time.

Morfyd, Morigan and Gormglaith walked briskly through a golden pumpkin yew swatched hall in the dens.

"Rhiamon Rush," said Morigan. "168 last Aefterra litha, witch a dozen ways from hex to tongue and back to Eachdraidh."

"A Sleepinglander!" put Morfyd. "Brought in and raised at Rush bog teach on the western moors."

"She pledged there 151 years ago. Got herself shee and split rainbows as a broom witch in twenty-four moons. She's been at Toreth house in Snotra ever since."

"We think she sways lots of folks by bree and birr as much as anything else but inside that bouncy, beaty bat..."

"...dwells a weird and gripping mind," said Morigan.

They came to a dim cove of black feldspar walls hung with some Highlands tapestries. Inner lit white quartz bench blocks sat crosswise on the hornblende floor off either end.

"Do we have Maiden lane?" asked Morigan.

A life sized ghost bamfed in, of a girl somewhat over five feet tall, at six stone reedy and wan with laser straight but disheveled, deep dark black, blue freaked hair falling to her elbows, thick eyebrows above sly looking, bright fir green eyes and a squish, pushed up nose bearing a sparkling shee's ring above blackened lips. Wearing black longstockings under a natty black cutty sark with forearm-length sleeves showing swaddled, open fingered gloves, she stood in platinum edged, bighty black klompen.

The witch gave a startled gape and fluttered towards them like... a bouncy, beaty bat.

She looked Gormglaith up and down, then gasped and threw a spray of ghosted white lily bits at her.

"Hey Rhiamon!" said Morigan. "This is..."

"Ok, ok Morigan," Rhiamon sighed, twirling her eyes. "Like the hobby henge twins haven't already told this one all about me. Hi Gormglaith!"

Rhiamon beamed.

"Hi..." said Gormglaith, staring at Rhiamon's klompen.

Rhiamon giggled, kicking out and holding up a toe-casting straight leg whilst standing way steady on the other.

"Keen, huh? Celtic! Very old!"

"Like my Grainne wears," said Gormglaith.

"I like thy cloppers," Rhiamon put with a smirk, nodding at the banshee's big, bright yellow wooden klompen with cheerfully hand drawn daisies.

"Ta! My kynn sent them!"

"We'll leave you to it then!" Morfyd called. "See ya!"

Gormglaith watched the twins walk out, then answered a tap on her shoulder. Rhiamon was waiting waggishly and Gormglaith faced her.

"Hi!"

"Hi!" said Gormglaith, shrugging and grinning wide.

Rhiamon put her face close to Gormglaith's with a frown (since the witch's ash blackened mouth fell abidingly to this and a smirk all at once). She took careful steps, staring in jerks at Gormglaith's nooks and crannies as the latest banshee of Wrath ness stood steadfastly by.

"Wow wow wow wow!" Rhiamon shouted, clapping hands together and twirling.

"I mean, I was ready for wraithen but not this!"

"Oh Rhiamon," sighed Gormglaith, "it's likely the cast, is all."

Rhiamon's eyes widened, then she looked down shyly.

"Gormglaith?"

"Rhiamon?"

"Dost tha like me?"

"I don't know thee yet..."

"Yeah but I mean, dost thou like me?" asked the witch, arms limp at her sides, peeking from behind a stray lock of black hair striped in many blues.

"Yes."

"Thou dost?!"

"Rather."

Rhiamon grinned and cast a glance skyward.

"Gormglaith Sparkenbane couldst thou help me out here?"

Gormglaith raised her hands and nodded.

"k'. So I've seen thy splits. I read the tale of thy plight to my torkin' nesties the other night as a bloody slumbertale with Erin Mynter's trigger spinnin' life sized on the deck and I did hear about thy feish in Grasp yesterday afternoon, dry latchin' Gumm bat 'n all. Girls like thee don't breeze and girls like me hackle girls like thee for lunch. Thou'st got something on thy mind and I want to know like... what," said Rhiamon, sunken fir green eyes like lasers, hands on bony hips.

"Hast thou read my clannin banns?"

Rhiamon seemed taken aback.

"...What. For Grasp? Why no, Gormglaith, I can't say I have."

"When thou'st done my bat, give us a call, 'k?"

Gormglaith spun to walk off.

"Gormglaith! Gormglaith!" the witch called out, forefinger raised.

"What," she said, a lock of thatch sweeping across her right eye.

"I'll read it. Wait here, ok?"

"Now?!"

"The thing is, reading stuff with somebody looking over my shoulder gives me the weepy creeps. So I'm gonna go off cast and call up a goblin," she said, thumbing behind her, "Thingy watchyamacallit whatever... 'n be back in a tick... 'n meantime thou'lt hang thy sticks here, 'k?"

"'k."

"Twixies!"

"Uh, yeah, ok, twixies."

"Kewl," said Rhiamon, smirking and snapping her fingers.

She glanced back and flashed a smile as her ghost bamfed out of sight.

"Hmph."

Shaking her head Gormglaith waved an arm and a black light shifted green goblin flew up as she straddled the glowing quartz bench.

She was reading, entwined and head down, when Rhiamon's ghost bamfed back. Heedfully, with witchy grin frozen on a beaming face, Rhiamon stepped out of her klompen and stalked slowly on her toes towards the banshee as if trying to keep in her blind spot. She reached Gormglaith's back, put plight-black mouth close to an ear hidden in thatch, tapped her shoulder and said,

"Foo!"

"Eek!"

Gormglaith sprang up as the goblin spewed thousands of glimmering runes in a fast dwindling cloud.

"Fy! Thou scared the feeps out of me!"

Rhiamon giggled.

"What is with thee?! Thou behave'st like a moppet!"

"Sorry," said Rhiamon, chided on one tick, barely hiding a smirk the next.

"Didst thou read it?"

The witch nodded brightly, like a moppet in early root.

"How couldst tha read it so fast?"

"Speedreader?" asked Rhiamon, making quick crosswise streaks with two fingers held close.

Gormglaith's eyes darted to the side and back again.

"So how 'bout it?"

"It sucks."

"It sucks..."

"Big icky trolls," Rhiamon put with eyes narrowing.

"Don't make me hurl," said Gormglaith, sneering and wheeling her hand.

"It's blur is all. I mean it's fylgjic, but heedless."

"That's what I thought."

"Ok," said Rhiamon, blinking once.

"'k, so... why is it heedless?"

"TOSS. Tongue OffSet Slip, mostly. It happens all the time."

"...It happens all the time."

"The broom's a craft of heed, speed 'n spell, whist, folk 'n freayll," Rhiamon put with the shrug of a twig shoulder.

"Yeah but it's still a wacking heedless bloody clannin banns, i'nit."

"...More like a wacking heedless bloody fylgjic clannin banns."

"Whatever...!?"

"Gasping, Gormglaith..." said the witch, wagging her head. "...Ok, tongue craft is ears and eyeballs stuff, barely fit for tangling fussy, boppin' girlware. Meanwhile Maiden lane's toaster bait and the two don't mix, never have done but, pinks make girlware think as though they mix or even grok, say, if the girlware tweedles about with some daft notion, by pingin' her with a hello lizzy or whatever."

"Pinks don't grok."

"Erm, yeah, it's way sloppy, so here 'n there, broom witches have to sweep out after 'em, tidyn' up for the fussiest girlware, like y'all. One spinoff is, anything a pink spits out in tongues is gonna be fylgjic, has to be, but grokless, like that clannin banns thou gandered before tha gotst henged. I reckon someone lately asked an eager broom witch to tweak it up and she put a pink to spewin'. I mean, not many girls can spot it, most don't care. Funny thing though, there happen to be a dozen witches of Eachdraidh living in Grasp who can, in a heartbeat. So someone wanted thee to spot it, either to see if thou couldst, or more likely to stir thee into glarkin' they needed thy keeness for tongues 'n keep it to thyself like the meed teach banshee... as if! Thou'st been scammed by some very stern hags. I think it's thrilling!"

"...So, thou'rt saying this... codswallop, is like, stern?"

"No Gormglaith, I'm saying this codswallop... is like... for the moppets."

"Spare me."

"Ok," said Rhiamon, shrugging as she skipped back to her Celtic klompen and stepped into them. "I was only tryin' to find out if tha overheardst Gillead. Someone said thou mightst've done, breezin' into thy first thing. I mean Gillead's a fit wench but I reckon she's still got a thing or three to learn. I'll talk to her. Anyway, it's all MAG, life is meed, gadgets play the only feish in town, the scythe reaps and has done for over five thousand years."

"Ok. ...Mag?"

"Mungs As Gweeped. They have way heedful boards on all this tongue offset stuff at any witch house or teach. Hey Gormglaith?"

"What."

"Can we fling flax?"

"I'm trying to grok."

"Try flingin' flax! Here, looky..."

Rhiamon flopped to the floor, sitting upon the brightly edged and bighty heels of black klompen. She wriggled then threw shoulders back, palms up and open on thighs afar. Gormglaith did likewise, settling upon the heels of yellow Frisian klompen and the two witches lankily faced each other, flingin' flax.

Rhiamon's eyebrows went up.

"Thou'st been handfasting..." she said, glomming at Gormglaith's left palm.

"...with scollies I should hope."

Head lowered, Gormglaith quickly nodded.

"...Thy notion?"

She slowly shook her head, thatch swaying.

"Yeah, I was wondering how far they'd go. Seems it wasn't enough, getting thee henged in that wanton setup for all to see. Nary two nights more blink by and we find thee handfasted with the latest, budding, bleeding crop of norns from Wrath ness. Norns, Gormglaith. Hast tha groked that one yet? There's no wriggling out now, thy doom's done. Forsake the quick plight and th'art the fickle, slippery tongue witch. Forsake this handfasting and th'art the fickle, slippery, norn ditching Celt slut, the cutter, dished in one of those short, weepy yarns for the heedless which always seem to wind up in the Eachdraidh. Thou'dst be shunned, thwarted by half the world for all thy puff and then some, far worse than what befell thy Geileis. Whoever brewed this up canny knew thee, Gormglaith."

Eyes still cast down, Gormglaith nodded sharply.

"Look, I know what thou'rt thinking," sighed Rhiamon.

"What! That any flock in the lane needs Snotra like carrying wheat to West meads? Without a wyrd freely sewn in the living minds and strings of girls, awakened and stirred the eald way, it ain't weird... and it ain't fylgjic!"

"Words shift and blow like the snow from meanings forsaken to the newly awakened."

"Tell me about it."

"Like I said, tongues have aught to do with it, low level's where the birr is. Slip spell into any toaster and zap, it's fylgjic! So leeg we can't put twains of Maiden lane in girls' brains. My life'd be chill I can tell thee."

Gormglaith stared at Rhiamon.

"Not," said the witch, sneering and shaking her head.

"That's not hello lizzy."

"Huh?"

"Thou saidst a pink can make like it's being helpful by feepin' hello lizzy over a daft notion but th'ast got it backwards. It's only hello lizzy if th'art fylgjic but get blown off anyway, like when broom witches shoo off norns with showers of lilies so y'all can say everyone's fussy, boppin' girlware then have a bash at spinnin' the wyrd for your own snot selves, not! I mean, since like, tongues have aught to do with anything. Now that's hello lizzy..."

"Hello, lizzy!" said Rhiamon, grinning wide, her taut black linen clad bottom bobbing on alder wood heels.

Gormglaith cast the witch a sidelong glance.

"Let's keep hands on our thighs, 'k?" Rhiamon carried on. "Runes and tokens are so to see but starlight's fit for thee and me."

"Oh, sorry."

"Anyway yeah, Maiden lane's toast but, all the afliae spells were buggy. Like it or not, any gadget thou canst think of is botched some way or another. We'll always be rubbin' sticks 'n stones and speech has been a thoroughly irksome bane ever since bairn began gabbin', never mind those first moof calls of open hex back in Newhaven. What a mess! As Erin said, there's only one truth but we'll never know, even if some stabs at it are way more helpful than others. Meanwhile the next weave could be rather deft and run even longer, twenty thousand years maybe. Tha canst tell thy sisters we're already hackin' it, by the bye. Maiden lane for panes! Catchy, huh?"

"Too slim, kissin' kin."

"Have they told thee who she is yet?"

"Thou'rt a hag, Rhiamon Rush."

Rhiamon smirked.

"Girls find her thrilling. I mean, Graih's cunning, slick as tears, but there're lots of clever girls flitting about these moons."

"Meanwhile she's spun up a wicked lass cult..."

"Gurfling..."

"...and Gwerfyl says Maiden lane's gonna crash."

"...to a dodgy end. Which is why y'all still need me. She's got lasses from here to Fen Glioon the hard way believing Snotra's a yoke they need to throw off. If the new gweep's called Too slim, she'll wind up with a world under the woe of her own selfish fist. I grok thou'st heard, Graih's got a thing about betrayal. Me? I think she's only snared in a haunting notion some girl, somewhere, might be happier than her."

"Either way's wretched," said Gormglaith. "Wanna help Wyrd? Bring thine own needle and thread."

"Why do I know that's Eachdraidh...?" asked Rhiamon, smiling.

"Tangwen Toreth. Be free and let others be. Left on their own girls gather in the canniest flocks even when they don't seem to have done. Most are born wanting to get along with others and spend their lives tryin'. One by one they find the keenest and sundry braids, to care for themselves and weave through the wyrd with everyone else. Nobody can tell them how to do it, much less stop them because nobody, no girl, no pink, no hopper, can grok all the threads Wyrd looms, truth unknowable. Kiss Wyrd and thank her for the weird braids 'n knots she brings. Three norns lurk on those tangled roots under skeins of boughs growin' on a Yggdrasil tree to remind us Wyrd looms as she will, bygone to evermore with each of us freely stitchin' her own thread. That's what clanninin' was about to begin with and clannin by bleeding clannin, they spun their world fylgjic."

"Yeah. Look, toasters've been scrozzling here and there for a dozen years, tripping all kinds and sundry, pesky snares and it's quickening. Hoppers are gonna start kickin' into upkeep spells, likely within about three dozen moons but there're lots of guesses, that's mine. Hey Gormglaith?"

"Hey whatlaith...?" she asked back, head tilted to the side.

Rhiamon's ghost leaned forward in a shimmer and kissed Gormglaith smack on the mouth, pog.

...

"Oy! ...Rhiamon!?"

"Keen, huh?"

"Ghost decks aren't meant to do that!"

"The rack's been hacked!"

"How sopping wicked! Oh... by the way, speakin' of wrinkly gweeps 'n norns 'n all, I'm meant to tell thee, a few wee swaps in the wheat freayll might be nudgin' things into upkeep a bit sooner than anyone glarked, stark, like, tonight."

"...Thou'st hooked up with a ruthless pack of yahs, Gormglaith."

"Gobsmacks that's keen! Yeah, I know... come on Rhiamon, let's try it again, 'k?!"

"Bloody flurt."

Gormglaith and Raoghnailt were on the pink sand of a grassy knoll overlooking Neach beach by the Minch, down the steep cut from Sandwood's sunken, sundry hued flagstone crofts, Grasp's low greywacke and bluestone walls lost in foggy heathered gloom beyond. Warm in white longstockings, short cutty sarks and raw blond wooden klompen they sat on a blanket, its wide black and milky stripes strewn with frosty blue corundum water jugs and an unopened basket of woven ash splits. A chalken light gleamed through the clouds whilst before them a fast deepening Keayn sheear dwindled into sweeping mist.

This was a fit afternoon for the beach. A stiff, chilling breeze blew chin length hair as they gazed across the sea which slammed against boulders below dark looming cliffs stretching far on either side. A hundred yards to their right Blodwen and Njorthrbiartr walked and skipped faaishly towards Wrath ness with its hurried beacon, looking for flotsam beside crashing swells. Away to the left five scollagyn played with a luzz ball in front of Shenn Rhonwen's. Their screeches and squeals echoed off the soaring purple sandstone walls, wafting across loops of wailing wind and surf. Raoghnailt snatched up a grey stone from the grassy sand.

"Hey look," she said, flipping it to show a rough, hewn end. "It's been split. See the ices."

Gormglaith leaned in. It was hard packed with small pink ones.

"Quartz?"

"Likely..." said Raoghnailt, holding up the cracked shred.

"...Faerwin says, somewhere between ice and ash, life begins."

She eyed thundering surf and threw the pebble smack into a wave.

Gormglaith brooded at the stormy, trundling Minch. Reaching into a slit on the side of her cutty sark she pulled out the sheer gore and biting her lip, flung it in a wide, sparkling, tumbling yaw.

"I never could throw for fuck," she sighed with a shrug.

Raoghnailt drew up her legs and grinned. Breakers thrashed as flaxen, red freaked hair flew in the steady gale of a western wind. Gormglaith cast her a feazed stare, hackled straw blond thatch streaming across bright blue lake eyes.

"So what's in the basket?"

"Guess."

The scythe reaped, slackening and wraithen.