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 bright. 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 orange yew swatched hall in the dens.

"Rhiamon Rush," said Morigan. "173 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. Got herself shee in twenty-four moons then split as a spider at Snotra pailtfylgjic two years early and lilied the plight call, 151 years ago."

"We think she sways her seven sisters 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 you see Rhiamon at Snotra?" 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. Wearing black longstockings under a natty black cutty sark with forearm-length sleeves showing swaddled, open fingered scollag's gloves, she stood in platinum edged, bighty black klompen.

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

Rhiamon

She looked Gormglaith up and down, then gasped.

"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 quite steadily 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 hand drawn flowers.

"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 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 banshee 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 overhead.

"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 Eryn 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 gin 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 ever read our clannin banns, plight of kindel, Aefterra litha 5432?"

Rhiamon seemed taken aback.

"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 5432 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 fluorescing 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 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?! Th'art a bloody spider witch, plighted to the pailtfylgjic clannin at Snotra and 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? Thou wastn't gone more than a minute!"

"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 a blur is all. I mean it's fylgjic, but heedless and harrowed."

"That's what I think."

"Ok," said Rhiamon, blinking once.

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

"TOSS. Tongue OffSet Spell, mostly. From the look of it I'd glark sixty-seven years ago some keen green spider witch lurkin' about the little fettle in Grasp was lookin' for something to do and thought she might help out with an eager bash at a makeover but, instead of twonking the paths and calls like any wonted sly 'n lazy wonk, she tried looking stuff up in the Eachdraidh and with her split or whatever didn't have a clue, gave up, peeked at what some other nearby thorpes had for banns, yarned 'n darned, bounced it over to her bopsy craft ring for a few weeks then spun it off as the mess thou gandered before thou gotst henged. It happens all the time."

"...It happens all the time."

"Spiderin's a craft of heed, speed and hex, ring, whist and freayll," Rhiamon put with the shrug of a twig shoulder.

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

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

"Whatever...!?"

"Gasping, Gormglaith..." said the witch, wagging her head.

"...Ok, here's the thing. The hex is toaster bait, mostly. Tongue craft is fuzzy ears and eyeballs stuff, for someone who's tangling wetware with the Eachdraidh to see she's not tweedling about, wasting time on some outbound notion that'll sooner or later ping a hello lizzy from the hex. Meanwhile so long as there are spiders helpin' to steer things anywhere near this tangled swath we call fylgjic, never mind how wacking clueless, the scythe reaps and has done for over five thousand years."

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

"No, I'm saying this codswallop... is like, MAG."

"Mag?"

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

"What."

"Can we throw flax?"

"I'm trying to think."

"Try flax! Here, looky..."

Rhiamon flopped to the floor, sitting upon linen sheathed heels. She wriggled then threw shoulders back, palms up and open on thighs afar. Stepping out of yellow Frisian klompen Gormglaith did likewise and the two witches lankily faced each other, 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.

"So. Would they happen to be like, budding norns or what."

Eyes still cast down, Gormglaith nodded sharply.

"Look, I know what thou'rt thinking," sighed Rhiamon. "Words shift and blow like the snow from meanings forsaken to the newly awakened and things are so too chaveled even if it did last a few thousand years longer than anyone ever thought it would, after all."

"Then even a bairn grasp of old English is unfit," said Gormglaith, "never mind Snotra's meant but to ward the bound, not weave the wyrd within which, if not freely sewn in the living hearts and minds of girls awakened and stirred the eald way... ain't fylgjic! The wonted flock in any lane could care fuck all about hex roie ec Snotra which by the bye was the whole pith when they gwept it and now, hark, I've stumbled into my new home only to find it bedecked with the careless whispers of spider witches, so sweet 'n bright, yeah but by thine own words, what they're gettin' on about's a bit dodgy in'it? I'm here to tell thee we're done with them, Rhiamon. I'm here to tell thee, as the afliae wept, let us be."

"...From any stern outlook? Rather. That mossy gab'll never quite match up with our thoughts, needs or deeds anymore and the gap's getting wider all the time. Tongues are a drag. Like I said, low level's where the birr is. Slip a hopper into any toaster and zap, it's fylgjic! So leeg the hex won't put twains of itself in girls' brains, or even a glossary. 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 if a clannin goes tweedling about with some outbound notion the hex does a hello lizzy but th'ast got it backwards. It's only hello lizzy if th'art fylgjic and get blown off anyway, like when I ask why we can't spill straight from the Eachdraidh and every spider witch from here to Snotra the hard way says we can't since like, tongues are such a docking drag. Now that's hello lizzy..."

"Hello, lizzy!" said Rhiamon, grinning wide and bobbing on heels swathed in black linen.

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, the hex is toast but, all the afliae hacks were tossy. Like it or not we've always had lots more fumbles runnin' gadgets than crafting 'em and speech has been a thoroughly irksome bane ever since they gwept those first moof BSD calls back in Newhaven. Still, there's only one truth and some takes on it are so much more helpful than others. The next weave could be rather deft and run even longer, 20,000 years maybe."

"How's Hanalin?"

"Have they told thee who she is yet?"

"Thou'rt a hag, Rhiamon Rush."

Rhiamon smirked.

"Hanalin's way out in the sticks 'n hardly spinning a lane, as in itsy bitsy mote. She's got gathered pinks doing heedless greps on the hex. It's a kludge. Y'all could try spillin' the same thing to your flocks but wontedly, clannin are all woven up together in such skeinish blizzards there'd be notch creep, kind of. The pith is, with a tiny, tightly plaited backwater like Follym downs, any drift's spot on the edge of low enough. So her rags are helpful as talkin' old English straight from the Eachdraidh 5,000 years ago, slick as tears. I mean, Hanalin's cunning for having groked that wrinkle but there're lots of clever girls flitting about the bound these moons."

"Meanwhile Follym downs breezes stern fylgjic through thick 'n thin..."

"Gurfling..."

"...and Gwerfyl says the hex'll crash with or without Hanalin."

"...to a dodgy end. Toasters've been scrozzling here and there for a dozen years, tripping all kinds and sundry, pesky snares and it's quickening. Hanalin was first to see, is all. Funny thing, she was only lookin' for stuff to tork, then spilled it to me straight off, grinnin' from ear to ear. Whatever. Hoppers are gonna start kickin' into upkeep spell, likely within about three dozen moons but there're lots of guesses, that's mine. Hey Gormglaith?"

"What."

"Y'ever play?"

"...Play what."

"Broom! It's way creepy and only spins on these big rigs! Wanna try?"

"'k."

"'k. Stare into mine eyes and keep on, is all... don't break thy gaze!"

...

"Oy! ...Rhiamon!?"

"Heh heh."

"How sopping wicked! Oh... by the way, speakin' of wrinkly rags, I'm also meant to tell thee, a few wee tugs at the freayll of durham grian might be nudgin' things into upkeep a bit sooner than anyone glarked, stark across the bound, 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 play more broom, 'k?!"

"Bloody flurt."

An hour later Gormglaith and Raoghnailt were on the pink sand of a grassy knoll overlooking Neach beach on the Minch, down the steep cut from Sandwood's colourful, sunken 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 indigo 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 prism 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.