Glamour — The Apprentice

It was the day before the New Year according to the calendar on the wall, though just a couple of months past there had been great parties for the ancient celebrations of the turning wheel. Now a week past the Yuletide solstice, Wendy was ready to move into the coming days according to the society in which she lived. First, though, there were a few tasks to be completed.

She finished putting the last of the bars of soap on the rack to sit while she prepared the packaging. This was her first time making the black soap herself, and her mentor would be stopping by to check on her in a few hours. The soap wouldn’t be packaged until after the check-in, so there was no hurry. Most of the work was done anyway. All she needed to do was wrap each bar in paper, tie it up with ribbon, and attach the label. With a little time on her hands, she decided to brew a cup of rejuvenating tea and catch up a little on her Book of Shadows. The soap recipe was still scrawled on a loose sheet of paper.

Once her tea was brewed, Wendy pulled a chair up to the table where her BOS sat opened. A bottle of black ink and a quill pen awaited her patient hand. Just as she lifted the pen to dip it into the ink, she felt movement of the air next to her as her cat arrived, airborne, landing on top of the book.

“You rascal!” Wendy chuckled as she gently pushed the cat away. “Take your seat away from my book, my friend. I need to write.” The cat stepped primly over the jar of ink and curled up to watch over her Mistress, as a good Familiar should. As Wendy carefully wrote in the book, a loud purr became her musical accompaniment. Wendy liked to write a little history of the spells and recipes she recorded in her Book of Shadows. It was a practice she had learned from her mentor. Stopping every few minutes to take a sip of her tea, she wrote:

The Black Soap

This recipe for Black Soap has been handed down from generation to generation since the earliest days of the American colonies. It has been said that the recipe was developed by a Witch named Maria who once lived in the Caribbean. She learned to make an herbal soap used on the islands when she was a servant. Later, she created her own version of the soap using herbs indigenous to North America. Maria passed it down to her daughters, who passed it to their daughters, who then passed it on to either their daughters or their apprentices. I received the recipe as an apprentice. My mentor received it from her mentor.

This soap is a basic Glamour. Lore credits it with taking ten to twenty years off women over the age of 35. When used by younger women, it enhances their youthful glow. The soap can be used by men with similar results; however, it is recommended that any Witch who provides it to men be very discerning when choosing to do so. There may be side effects that have not been recorded in recent years. Old records do not provide detailed information regarding this.

To make the soap…

When she was finished, Wendy sat back with her cup to finish her tea. The ink would have to dry before she could close the book. As she sipped the rest of her tea, Wendy looked around her cottage. In many ways, she realized, her home had come to mirror that of her mentor, Agatha.

Like all cottages, hers had a large fireplace over which she had hung an ornate mirror. Two candles burned, reflected in the glass. She had added a silver censer between them, where she burned an incense with a deep, earthy fragrance that Agatha had gifted her on the day she had begun her apprenticeship. Now, another year in, Wendy made her own.

Wendy set her teacup down. Agatha would be here soon. It was time to make ready. Agatha was an older woman, though not quite old. Still, by the time she had walked across the village to Wendy’s home, she would be tired and ready for repast. Wendy set about making a small wassail bowl to accompany the meal. Fresh-baked bread and cheese made from the milk of Wendy’s little goat were today’s dinner. Wendy hoped it would be sufficient for the woman who had taught her so much.

Wendy was thinking about the day she knocked on Agatha’s door speaking of wanting to be beautiful. She had only known the woman as “the Witch,” because so many in their village had spoken of her so. It was strange to think that for so long the woman Wendy now thought of as an older sister had been a figure of fear to her. Shaking her head, Wendy chuckled at herself for calling the town where she lived a “village.” Indeed, it was small compared to the cities, but it was not so small that one knew their neighbors as family.

When the knock came at the door, Wendy was shaken out of her reverie. Excited, she checked her face in the mirror before heading to the door. It wouldn’t do for her to bear faulty glamour on a day like today. It wasn’t every day that one’s mentor, sister, and superior visited for dinner.

“Well,” she thought, “and an examination. I hope the soap turned out right.”

She opened the door to find a smiling Agatha, dressed in purple skirts, a cape, and a soft lavender babushka tied around her lavish grey hair. Agatha’s hair had been a divine mix of deep chestnut and silver-white when Wendy had knocked on her door that first day. Today the chestnut had virtually disappeared. Her piercing grey eyes smiled around the edges as Agatha stepped into the living area, glancing about. She was pleased. This was the first she had been in Wendy’s home. It was comfortable. She felt welcome.

“Well,” said Agatha, “First things first.” She removed the light cape she had tossed over her shoulders and laid it carefully over the back of a chair near the fireplace. “Where is the soap?”

Wendy held her breath while Agatha picked up each bar of black soap and took in a deep breath before turning it over and over. Nodding, Agatha went from bar to bar until she had checked each one for flaws. When she was done, Agatha turned to Wendy with a smile.

“Well done, Sister,” she praised her apprentice with the simple truth. Wendy took out the paper wrappings she had cut, the labels already written out, and the various colored ribbons to be used to tie them up. Agatha flipped through, noting that the paper was well-cut, straight, and each a perfect size for the bar of soap it would contain. Finally, she asked Wendy, “And the recipe? You’ve got it in a safe place?”

Wendy nodded, ushering Agatha to the small table where the Book of Shadows had been set to dry. “I’ve added it to my book, and the paper you wrote it on is tucked behind the page. I’ve done the same with the incense recipe, as well as the potions.”

“Excellent!” Agatha boomed. She raised her arms wide and pulled Wendy into an embrace. Wendy was elated. She did good! She made her mentor proud! Tomorrow would be the day to wrap the soap. Tonight was for celebration.

Wendy felt her spirit soar as she pulled the lid off the wassail bowl and scooped out a cup, offering it to Agatha. “Please, sit at the table. I’ve baked a fresh loaf and brought out some cheese. Let us share a New Year’s Eve meal and sing of Auld Lang Syne in the tradition of old Robbie Burns.” She laughed at herself as she turned the phrase.

The women enjoyed their meal together, poured down the wassail, and sang as if the night depended on it. When the meal was done, Agatha stood and reached out to her apprentice. “Come, now, sister,” she said, “We must take a cup of this wonderful wassail outside.”

‘This is a curious turn of events,’ thought Wendy as she poured the last of the bowl into their cups and handed Agatha hers. They pulled their capes over their shoulders and stepped out the door. Wendy’s cat slipped through just before she pulled the door shut behind her.

The moon was full and partially hidden by clouds from which large fluffy snowflakes fell slowly to the ground. The ground had been snow-covered when Agatha had arrived earlier, but now the flakes fell into soft velvety drifts that piled up against the cottage like a blanket pulled up to a chin on a cold night. Wendy pulled the hood of her cape forward to block the cold breeze that kissed her cheeks and looked into the sky. Her cat rubbed against her legs, then settled into a branch of a nearby tree.

Agatha stood beside Wendy for a moment, then moved forward, turning to face her. Lifting the cup of wassail, Agatha spoke clearly and powerfully,

I raise this cup to spirits of old

I raise it to powers of new,

I call forth blessings

They bring to you;

For from this day

A year gone by

I see the powers

Which within you lie.

She gestured for Wendy to lift her cup, then drank deeply of the liquid within. Wendy followed suit, the realization of the night’s importance dawning on her. Agatha spoke again,

“On the morrow, Sister, shall be the year and a day since you began your apprenticeship with me. Going forward, you shall be called ‘Witch.’ For the next three years you will learn much of the ancient wisdom of women which has been taught mother to daughter, sister to sister, from the beginning of days. You have done well.”

Agatha took the cup from Wendy’s hand and poured what was left of the liquid into her own cup, mixing the dregs in swirls before raising it once more to the sky.

“Sister to sister we stand, honoring those who have gone before us, leaving behind the knowledge of life and of death and of the many gifts given to us. We, the keepers of life.”

She poured the liquid upon the snow, drawing with its essence a sacred symbol. The two stood quietly, watching as the falling snow covered the symbol, rendering it invisible to the eye, but burned for eternity into the souls of the witches. Bound, these sisters in spirit began to sing, first quietly, then loud enough for all within earshot to hear.

“Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And never brought to mind?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And days o’ lang syne!”

As they sang, the voices of the neighborhood joined in.

For auld lang syne, my Dear,

For auld lang syne,

We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.

When the song was done and the spell was cast, the two witches went into Wendy’s house, where Agatha helped her clean up before wrapping herself up tight for a slow walk home.

Once Agatha had gone, Wendy banked her fire before changing into nightclothes. Looking out the window at the still falling snow, she gave thanks that it was a soft fall. It was a steady snow, but there would be no blizzard tonight.

Knowing her mentor would be safe at home soon, she crawled into bed. She pulled the covers up to her chin just as her cat jumped onto the bed and curled beside her, purring loudly as a good Familiar should.

This story first appeared in Fandom Fanatics Create on Medium