Starfell: Willow Moss and the Lost Day. Dominique Valente
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two knives, forks, plates and purple glasses. Moreg patted her cloak, rolled her eyes heavenward, and sighed deeply, ‘I must have left the good wine in my other cellar – looks like we’ll be roughing it. Just the rynflower cider for us. I suppose we’ll survive,’ she said, pulling out a small jug with a doubtful expression.
Willow stared. Her other cellar? How on Starfell did the witch manage to keep all of that in one cloak? And manage to walk? The obvious answer was of course magic. But that was a broad answer, and magic, as far as Willow knew, didn’t work the way people believed it should. Not any more, not since it was nearly ripped away a thousand years before during the war started by the Brothers of Wol, a religious order who tried to rid Starfell of magic because they believed – and, alas, still did to this day – that people born with magical abilities were unnatural, and that their bodies were possessed by evil. The battle resulted in what was known as the Long War. The old witches and wizards gathered together their best spells to fight them, but they were stolen, and the Brothers of Wol killed thousands of witches and wizards, destroyed enchanted forests and burned all the spell scrolls they could to try to rid the world of magic.
But they had failed. They didn’t know the truth. Magic never dies – it simply waits until we are ready for it. When centuries had passed it trickled back, ever so slowly, into Starfell.
But this magic wasn’t like the magic from before. It had changed. Perhaps it had learnt. Maybe it worried that if it gave too much it would be ripped away again. When it did at last come slowly slinking back, it did so cautiously, only gifting a few with tiny slithers of itself.
These days people who had a magical ability usually didn’t have more than one, yet they still called themselves witches and wizards. But they were not like the old witches and wizards from before, known now as the old magicians of Starfell, who didn’t just have a singular magical ability – they had many. Magic in the world was different then too; it ran freely through the land, through the streams and rivers, mountains and glades. And some of the most powerful magicians back then harnessed this magic through powerful spells.
But that world was long gone. Just like those old powerful spells that the magicians had gathered together to fight the Brothers of Wol, which had passed into myth as the Lost Spells of Starfell. Today few witches and wizards could perform even the simplest spells, and, as far as Willow knew, no one with a magical ability could do what Moreg seemed to be doing now, which was to use magic like it was available on tap.
‘How do you keep all of that with you?’ Willow asked.
Moreg, who had just taken a fancy purple cushion out of her cloak, looked up and shrugged. ‘Oh … I don’t. I believe in travelling light really.’
Willow’s mouth fell open. ‘B-but then how do you have all this stuff?’ she exclaimed, looking from the table to the stewing pot and folding chairs in disbelief.
Moreg cocked her head to the side. ‘I don’t, not really – it’s a portal cloak. I had it made in Lael, so now I have access to my store cupboard, cellar and kitchen at home – very useful, I can tell you.’
‘A portal cloak?’
Moreg dished up the thick, hearty stew, handed Willow a heavy stoneware plate and sat down opposite her on her own fold-up chair, plumping the purple cushion, which she put behind her back. ‘Lousy lumbago,’ she muttered. Then seeing that Willow was still waiting for an answer to her question she said, ‘You know what a portal is?’
Willow thought. ‘It’s like a door to somewhere else?’
‘Exactly, except it doesn’t need to be a door, it can even be a—’
‘A cloak,’ breathed Willow in wonder.
Moreg smiled. ‘Quite.’
‘Wow.’
‘It has its uses. Not all of us have your skill – anything you need summoned like that.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘That’s truly something.’
Willow shrugged. ‘Only if it’s lost, though. It’s a bit annoying. I can’t summon my own toothbrush unless I’ve lost it first … and leaving things at home doesn’t count as lost.’ She ran her tongue over her teeth and sighed. She had, in fact, forgotten her toothbrush.
Moreg tapped her nose conspiratorially, then winked. ‘But you work around that … don’t you?’
Willow’s mouth fell open in surprise. How did she know? Could she really read minds, like some people thought?
Willow did ‘lose’ things that might be useful later. You couldn’t be too deliberate or else the magic wouldn’t work, but if, for example, you placed a spare bit of change in a pocket that you ‘forgot’ had a hole in it, well, it could save you running home for your wallet on market day. (Incidentally this had caused Prudence Foghorn to appear momentarily impressed the other day, before she asked after Willow’s more remarkable sister Camille.) Sometimes it helped you to plan ahead when you wanted to ‘accidentally’ lose a rather lumpy old quilt that had been made from several of your granny’s hairy dresses. You’d have to forget on washday, just, for example, while you were hanging it up to dry, that there was a gale-force wind forecast. But who knew when you might need to summon the warmth of an additional quilt?
Moreg laughed, but she looked no less scary. ‘It’s what I’d do myself … that’s the secret to being a good witch. Always be a step ahead if you can. Practical makes perfect.’
Willow frowned. ‘I thought it was practice?’
Moreg scoffed. ‘That’s just for people who like to waste time. Who needs to practise something when they can be prepared the first time around?’ she said, tapping her cloak.
That seemed true enough.
A small, rather grumpy voice from within Willow’s hairy bag mumbled, ‘An’ oo ’elps ’er to lose fings so she can find it? Jes like a witch to take all the credit. Din’t she say jes the other day that she wished she could lose her fisher’s net … sayin’ that it would be a bit more featrical when the time came for her to find people’s lost thingamababies she could summons it and ketch it? So din’t I frow it into Lost Man’s Lake where fings disappear never ter be seen again … Not that she cares. Oh no! Stick me in a bag made of ’air, only the last kobold and all … not like I wanted any of the stew, nohow.’
A loud silence followed this. Moreg looked at Willow. Willow looked at Moreg.
Then. ‘What was that?’ asked the witch.
‘That,’ sighed Willow, ‘was nothing …’
The witch raised a brow and Willow hastened to add, ‘That you would care to know about. Trust me.’
Witches for the most part aren’t stupid, so Moreg didn’t press it. But she did say rather loudly, ‘A witch’s business is none but her own. However, my cellar and pantry are off bounds … not unless a kobold wants to be turned into a full tabby cat.’
There was a distinctive gasp from within the bag. Willow snorted.
After helping Moreg do the dishes (Moreg, of course, had hot water and a tin basin ready), Willow climbed into her camp bed, and even though it was her first night away from the cottage in her whole life she fell instantly asleep, despite Oswin’s grumblings. ‘Why she ’ave to take it that far? Turn me into a common cat! Jes because I’s a monster don’ mean I don’ ’ave feelings … sniff.’
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