strange Syllables in a high-pitch’d Voice.
I, too, lookt into the Ball, searching in its mysterious Depths for the Key to my Future. I fancied I saw Seas and Continents swirling within the Ball, but perhaps ’twas just my Imagination deceiving me. I also thought I saw Lord Bellars’ handsome Face, then the ugly Face of Doggett, then the Face of a Copper-hair’d little Girl, then the Face of an ugly old Bawd—but all these Visions I discredited as Delusions and Fancies, not true Prophecies.
Finally, Joan began to speak. She spoke in Rhyme and in a Voice not like her own. ’Twas higher and shriller. Her Eyes blaz’d like smould’ring Coals and her whole stout Form sway’d and rockt like a Chandelier in a House that is about to collapse. I listen’d to ev’ry Word as if my Life hung in the Balance. Perhaps it did.
This is what she said:
“Your own Father you do not know.
Your Daughter will fly across the Seas.
Your Purse will prosper, your Heart will grow.
You will have Fame, but not Heart’s Ease.
From your Child-Womb will America grow.
By your Child-Eyes, you will be betray’d.
You will turn Blood into driven Snow.
By your own strong Heart will the Devil be stay’d.”
CHAPTER XI
Of Prophecies and Herbs; of Witchcraft and Magick; of Courage and a red silk Garter.
A FTER THE PROPHECY HAD been utter’d, we three sat in the dark Chamber by the Light of one flick’ring Candle and star’d into the Depths of the Crystal Sphere, saying no Word to each other. A steady Rain began to drum upon the Roof; a chill Wind flew down the Chimney causing the Fire to dance madly for a Moment, then leap upward once more; and Lustre rear’d upon his hind Legs, neigh’d wildly, show’d his Face at the Window, his Eyes blazing, and then grew suddenly silent again.
“I will lead him to Shelter under the Eaves,” Isobel said, and for a Moment or two, I was left alone with Joan, my Seeress.
“What doth the Prophecy mean?” I askt.
“It means,” she said, her Voice return’d to its normal State, “whate’er ye take it to mean. You yourself are the Creator of your Destiny—ne’er forget that.”
“But what doth the Prophecy portend?” I insisted. “How shall I turn Blood to driven Snow? How shall I stay the Devil?” (I could not but shudder at his very Name.)
Joan lookt at me with all Solemnity and said: “I’faith, Lass, I do not know. I can only tell ye that when I gaze into the Ball a Pow’r greater than myself seizes hold of me and what I say I oft’ cannot rightly remember afterwards. My Voice turns high and shrill as the Wind shrieking, my Throat goes dry as Kindling, my Eyes burn in my Head like Embers, and it seems my Brains bubble like boiling Milk. Yet Folks tell me my Prophecies oft’ come true. I can’t boast of it myself because I don’t remember ’em.”
“But you say they come true?” I askt.
“Other Folks say so,” said Joan. “Oft’ the Possessor of a Pow’r is the last Soul upon Earth to credit it. When I come back to my own true Self, as now, I swear I cannot remember the Prophecies at all.”
“But I remember ’em,” I said. “I shall ne’er forget ’em.”
“That’s good, Lass,” said Joan. “Let ’em seep into your Brain and give ye the Pow’r to seize your Life with Courage. Courage is the only Magick worth having. If I could brew a Potion for kindling Courage in the Heart, I’d be the richest old Lady in all of England. But, alas, each of us must brew it in the Cauldron of her own Heart. There’s no other Way. If my Prophecies can do a little to heat the Flames, I’m content.”
“This is potent Witchcraft indeed,” I said, as the Prophecy silently burnt into my Brain. “Pray tell me, what other Enchantments do you know?”
At that very Moment, Isobel appear’d out of the Rain, where she had tended to Lustre, and hearing the last Query, made quick to answer (as if, i’faith, she had not been out of the Room).
“We know,” she said, “Herbs
I, too, lookt into the Ball, searching in its mysterious Depths for the Key to my Future. I fancied I saw Seas and Continents swirling within the Ball, but perhaps ’twas just my Imagination deceiving me. I also thought I saw Lord Bellars’ handsome Face, then the ugly Face of Doggett, then the Face of a Copper-hair’d little Girl, then the Face of an ugly old Bawd—but all these Visions I discredited as Delusions and Fancies, not true Prophecies.
Finally, Joan began to speak. She spoke in Rhyme and in a Voice not like her own. ’Twas higher and shriller. Her Eyes blaz’d like smould’ring Coals and her whole stout Form sway’d and rockt like a Chandelier in a House that is about to collapse. I listen’d to ev’ry Word as if my Life hung in the Balance. Perhaps it did.
This is what she said:
“Your own Father you do not know.
Your Daughter will fly across the Seas.
Your Purse will prosper, your Heart will grow.
You will have Fame, but not Heart’s Ease.
From your Child-Womb will America grow.
By your Child-Eyes, you will be betray’d.
You will turn Blood into driven Snow.
By your own strong Heart will the Devil be stay’d.”
CHAPTER XI
Of Prophecies and Herbs; of Witchcraft and Magick; of Courage and a red silk Garter.
A FTER THE PROPHECY HAD been utter’d, we three sat in the dark Chamber by the Light of one flick’ring Candle and star’d into the Depths of the Crystal Sphere, saying no Word to each other. A steady Rain began to drum upon the Roof; a chill Wind flew down the Chimney causing the Fire to dance madly for a Moment, then leap upward once more; and Lustre rear’d upon his hind Legs, neigh’d wildly, show’d his Face at the Window, his Eyes blazing, and then grew suddenly silent again.
“I will lead him to Shelter under the Eaves,” Isobel said, and for a Moment or two, I was left alone with Joan, my Seeress.
“What doth the Prophecy mean?” I askt.
“It means,” she said, her Voice return’d to its normal State, “whate’er ye take it to mean. You yourself are the Creator of your Destiny—ne’er forget that.”
“But what doth the Prophecy portend?” I insisted. “How shall I turn Blood to driven Snow? How shall I stay the Devil?” (I could not but shudder at his very Name.)
Joan lookt at me with all Solemnity and said: “I’faith, Lass, I do not know. I can only tell ye that when I gaze into the Ball a Pow’r greater than myself seizes hold of me and what I say I oft’ cannot rightly remember afterwards. My Voice turns high and shrill as the Wind shrieking, my Throat goes dry as Kindling, my Eyes burn in my Head like Embers, and it seems my Brains bubble like boiling Milk. Yet Folks tell me my Prophecies oft’ come true. I can’t boast of it myself because I don’t remember ’em.”
“But you say they come true?” I askt.
“Other Folks say so,” said Joan. “Oft’ the Possessor of a Pow’r is the last Soul upon Earth to credit it. When I come back to my own true Self, as now, I swear I cannot remember the Prophecies at all.”
“But I remember ’em,” I said. “I shall ne’er forget ’em.”
“That’s good, Lass,” said Joan. “Let ’em seep into your Brain and give ye the Pow’r to seize your Life with Courage. Courage is the only Magick worth having. If I could brew a Potion for kindling Courage in the Heart, I’d be the richest old Lady in all of England. But, alas, each of us must brew it in the Cauldron of her own Heart. There’s no other Way. If my Prophecies can do a little to heat the Flames, I’m content.”
“This is potent Witchcraft indeed,” I said, as the Prophecy silently burnt into my Brain. “Pray tell me, what other Enchantments do you know?”
At that very Moment, Isobel appear’d out of the Rain, where she had tended to Lustre, and hearing the last Query, made quick to answer (as if, i’faith, she had not been out of the Room).
“We know,” she said, “Herbs
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