Blackmail Earth by Bill Evans

the radio in her mother’s old Ford Falcon about a twelve-year-old girl who’d been stabbed forty-seven times. Fear of such a fate never left her and she was somehow drawn to every bit of news that mentioned a knifing death. Just days ago, she’d read of a young woman who had been killed with a butcher knife in New York City.
    It’s just a symbol, she reminded herself, of how you’re cutting yourself off from your old life.
    Forensia forced her gaze to a large pentagram of woven animal skin that was hanging from a branch behind the altar, like a giant pendant from a neck chain. But this was no laser-cut diamond heart or sapphire oval. The ancient five-pointed star had been hacked from crudely tanned hide spotted with patches of dull fur and scattered shanks of coarse hair that hung unevenly, like roughly chopped fringe. A cattle horn, grayed by smoke and time, curled out of the twisted pelts, a forged fang in an errant grave.
    The star’s harsh appearance was not reassuring and Forensia quickly reminded herself that the five points symbolized the five appendages of her body. That it hung from a tree also was symbolic, for trees represented the five true elements: earth, air, fire, water, and spirit. And each element represented the five points of a compass: Air was east, fire was south, water was west, earth was north, and spirit was the center. Microcosm upon microcosm of creation. Real meaning in all that you did and thought, especially on this day.
    Only hours ago, Forensia and Sang-mi had given themselves a ritual bath in a spring, though finding one that hadn’t succumbed to the devastating drought hadn’t been easy. They’d had to drive forty-three miles and then hike for an hour up into the Catskill Mountains to bathe outdoors. But on the day of their initiation they knew that their skin and spirits needed to feel nature’s elements directly. A bathtub would never do.
    Once a witch, always a witch. Even as a young girl, she’d been drawn to witchcraft. Not the dark side, but not Disney’s commodified version, either. Or Harry Potter’s, for that matter. Much as she’d loved the Potter series—yes, she’d been one of those kids lining up at midnight for each new book—the world of Hogwarts had never appeared as real to her as the world within herself.
    For Forensia, witchcraft was all consuming: befriending the trinity of maiden, mother, and crone who lived inside her; learning about the spirits of the land, sea, and air; using natural herbs and balms for healing and to gain wholeness; and enjoying the companionship of like-minded women. Practicing spells, too. Yet despite several years of study, she felt that she had only begun to learn these ancient magics. She’d be studying enchantments and charms—and a few carefully selected curses—the rest of her life. Spells were so hard to perfect, yet so vital to her growth.
    Her fears ebbed as she considered her long path to the circle of power. Then she noticed a distinct trace of giddiness blooming in her belly, sweetened by the knowledge that Richtor sat, also shamelessly sky clad, only feet away. Over the past two months she’d been drawn to his quiet overtures, lured by his shockingly abundant blond dreads and his densely blue eyes that reminded her of cornflowers. She tried mightily not to look at him, not to linger on his lovely nakedness, but her body wouldn’t obey such an easily eluded command, and a smile parted her lips when his open gaze met hers.
    The feelings that had drawn her to Richtor, to hold his hand and kiss him, felt strong as thunder. They’d spent many evenings reading by candlelight in his simple wooden cabin, imagining the rites and rituals that neither of them had yet performed. But she’d never shown him her private Book of Shadows, an intensely intimate journal filled with jottings about spells, and the results—still spotty—of her magic making. And he and the other nonwitches would not be permitted at the initiation