Long ago, when the gods walked among us...

A short tale from the Witchlands (and a sneak peek from Witchlight)

Photo by Lightscape on Unsplash

The Great Crossing

Long ago, before the gods walked among us, we were the No’Amatsi people. The people of shared love, of Thread-family. We lived in the northernmost stretches of the Fareastern Continent until war chased us from our home.

We traveled west, following the Moon Mother, whose Threads were great ribbons of color across the sky. First she led us away from the war. Then she led us into the one place no humans dared to tread: the Sleeping Lands.

It is a vast expanse of snow where magic waits so thick in the air that those who go in, do not come out the same—assuming they come out at all. And although we, the No’Amatsis, did come out alive, we were markedly changed. The cold leeched all color from our faces; the magic turned our eyes golden and green.

When we finally left the Sleeping Lands and entered this new world, the people there did not welcome us. We had crossed the uncrossable. But much more alarming was the fact that we had magic.

In those days, only the gods had magic.

Those gods, however, did not fear us as their children did. Instead, they welcomed us. There was Owl, who watched over the creatures and plants of the Witchlands. Swallow, who controlled the seasons and the storms. Comet Bright, who gave us fire (but who sometimes lost their temper and spread it over the land). Old Uncle who protected the rivers and seas—if he could be bothered to wake up from his nap. Then Wicked Cousin, whose domain was the dead and the deadly.

And lastly of course, there was Trickster, who delighted in mischief and thrived off of chaos.

Soon enough, the No’Amatsis became the favorite of all the gods. They were fascinated by our Thread magic—so different from how magic worked in the Witchlands. But that favor only made the locals hate us more. They wanted to know why we, people from afar, were more favored than they? Why were we more beloved than they who had worked and toiled for an eternity to please their gods?

Then one day, the unthinkable happened: the gods turned on Moon Mother, led by the one who’d always claimed he loved her most.

Trickster.

After that, magic flowed through the earth into everyone. Each soul in the Witchlands received the power which previously had only been divine. Some received more than others; hierarchies formed; the powerful dominated those with less; and war spread across the Witchlands.

Worst of all, a shadowy sickness began to appear—oily and thick. Fast and violent. “Cleaving” it was called, for it seemed to sever a soul directly from its body, too fast for anyone to stop. And too fast for anyone to escape, for when one person cleaved, many more were likely to join them.

To no one’s surprise, the No’Amatsis were the ones blamed for the transformation across the Witchlands. Before you came, the world was not like this! You are the reason we cleave and suffer and die! And so our people withdrew from the world that had briefly been our own. Hunted again. Chased away by war. Except this time, we had no Moon Mother to guide us. No new continent toward which we could flee. So we hid ourselves in the forests and the mountains, behind morning glories and bear claws, and we waited for a time when the gods might one day walk among us again.

And when our Blessed Moon Mother might return, her Threads blazing forgotten colors across the sky, beacons for her children to follow home.