Chapter 10 - Cailleach

Cailleach, leaned over a huge iron pot that swung from an arm mounted over the fireplace. She could move the pot nearer or farther from the fire to regulate the temperature of the contents. A noxious steam roiled out of the pot. Cailleach sniffed. "Ah, it’s coming along nicely."

Taking her old woman form of late, Cailleach lived in a small farmhouse just inside the edge of the Flow Country. Stretching from Tongue in the north to Lairge in the south, from the river Naver in the east to Scourie in the west, the area was well-named. It was mostly a soggy swamp, inhabited by little except water birds and small mammals. Unwary nature lovers could easily fall into a dubh lochan, a small bog pool, and be swallowed in minutes.

She liked this spot she had chosen. It allowed her access to the mundane world and to the magical realm of the Otherworld, reached by a portal hidden deep in the bogs, but nearby. She could relax, without having to maintain the folklore tradition of a blue-black face, a single eye in her forehead, and long red teeth. She didn’t even like that look, and was not very happy when the bards described her that way. Her current hag appearance with the matted hair and a wart or two kept people, both mundane and magical, from becoming too friendly.

Cailleach stirred the pot with a heavy iron ladle. She always kept iron close at hand to keep the Sidhe away. She had little use for fairies. Lazy things, always shape-shifting to mooch food from unsuspecting mundanes. Who could turn away a child who comes to the door claiming his poor auld mither was starving? Many soft-hearted humans fed the stray cats wandering about their small farms. The farmers welcomed them to help keep the rodents away from their grain, not realizing the cats were really sidhe or faeries. Cailleach’s personal opinion leaned toward the folklore claiming them to be transformed witches and were not trustworthy under any circumstance.

The warty witch peered into the cauldron. "It’s time. How did that spell go? You’d think I’d have memorized it by now. Ah, yes."

Cailleach dumped the slimy, mottled-brown contents of a glass jar into the cauldron.

"Let me see. Is this thirty or thirty-one days since I found the frog under the log. It says ‘cold stone’, but I’d think a cold log would work as well."

Cailleach sniffed. "Hmm, does this look venomous, or just rotten?"

"Well, it’s bubbling. That’s good. Now which of these mortars has the newt’s eye? That one looks more like a lizard’s leg, or is that goat’s gall?"

For five hundred years, she had been trying to make the spell work, and it always thwarted her. Some ingredients the weird sisters named when cooking up the brew just weren’t right. Either the witches made a mistake, or that Will Shakespeare fellow had written it wrong. Still, the notion appealed to her and she had plenty of time on her hands to play with the formula. She pushed the cauldron closer to the fire and watched the noxious eruptions rise to the top, then burst like so many boils on a beggar’s face.

A scratching at the door caught her attention. Walking over, she peered through the peephole, but didn’t see anyone there. "Oh, bother. Is some spoiled brat trying to play tricks on the old woman?" She grabbed the handle and jerked the door open, screaming, "I’ve got you!"

Nobody stood on her porch. A clucking made her look down. A scraggly, wingless chicken, looking as if it’d been out in the rain, crouched at her feet. The skrat stood on four wobbly legs, staggered around Cailleach’s legs and into the house. It squatted by the fire and ruffled its feathers.

Cailleach glared at the scruffy creature. She never could tell one from the other, but they had their uses. "What do you want, Skrat? I’m busy--"

Skrat spoke in a high-pitched, ragged tone as if he was gargling pebbles. "I have news."

Cailleach stepped closer. The skrats didn’t bother her unless they had something good to report. "Tell me."

"Witch is near."

The hag considered for a moment. "Is it one of the Wiccans? They’re harmless. Always collecting plants for some potion or another."

"Wiccan, yes, but witch, not wannabe."

Cailleach narrowed her eyes and plucked at the hair growing from her chin. "Where, exactly?"

"In bogs."

"Why would a real witch be there? Staking out territory?" The crone pondered a moment, then looked down at the skrat, which had not dried out at all. "You watch. Bring your brothers with you. Report thrice daily to tell me what she’s up to."

The skrat nodded its featherless head. "What you pay?"

Cailleach aimed a kick at the skrat, but it scuttled out of the way. "Bother! You’re always asking about pay. Have I ever shortchanged you?"

"No. Want to tell brothers."

Cailleach glared at the creature. "A month’s grain for each of you."

"Done. I go now."

The skrat wobbled to the open door and departed. Cailleach closed it behind the creature, then returned to her fireplace. She swished the brew in the cauldron a few times.

"Bah. This isn’t right. It should be green by now. Besides, it stinks." She hefted the handle and dragged the cauldron to the sink. Grunting, she lifted it and tipped the rim, pouring the slimy yellow guck down the drain. She had no more time for experimenting with ancient formulas. If this invading witch was out for a fight, Cailleach had to be ready to give her one.

The old woman’s grim expression softened into sadness. She had not been Cailleach the Goddess for many years. Back in her glory days, she’d been important, a force to be reckoned with. One of the two goddesses of the seasons, she ruled the winter months between Samhain and Beltaine. Bride, who she hadn’t seen in centuries, ruled the other half of the year.

Cailleach brought snowstorms that covered the country in white, letting the land sleep for a while. Those were the days. I rode a wolf through the highlands, killing all plant life and chasing the people into their homes until Beltaine came and Bride took my place. Bah, that Bride! So sweet and lovely, she makes me sick.

Back in her heyday, Cailleach had created the mountains and lochs, shaped the hills and valleys. Her power was unmatched by any of the gods. The others had their uses, but Cailleach had made them seem puny in comparison.

The old hag walked to a mirror on the wall and stared at her haggard face and white hair. When had she let herself go? It had crept up on her like a thief, stealing her beauty and strength. Now, she was only a shell of her former self. No real power of her own. She turned away from the mirror, thinking. Maybe this foreign witch provided an opportunity to make a comeback, to rule again as she had before.

Samhain was less than a month away. If she could steal this witch’s magic and add it to her own–. If only.

Cailleach had to prepare. She must renew her contact with the wolf and deer, the creatures she had once protected. She had fallen down on the job, and the earth had forsaken her in return. Now was the time. Now she had a chance to change, to return to her days of power.

With this threat, she realized she missed being the all-powerful being she once was. Lack of belief from the mundanes made it difficult to maintain her power. Fear and adoration had provided the strength a goddess needed to survive. She now felt like she’d been living a shadow life. With the help of this unsuspecting witch, she would change all that. Cailleach chuckled. Come, my pretty. I have uses for you.