Magical Secrets

We lived in solitude all our lives. Our father was killed by English lords looking for the little amount of crops we could grow. Our mother, we never met her, ever. For all we know, she died in childbirth, very common. Our King, James the first led in tyranny, much to the dismay of the English and Scottish population. We where mystics, my brother and I. Very talented at our crafts, but any sense of abnormality from any citizen would result in sudden death. Magic was hush hush. Conspiracy rumour spread through the country about a small coven of Wiccan witches nearby who where burned at the stake in front of their families.

I found it unfair, as I walked to the piece of rope I called a Wash line, to hang the clothes on. The wind wipped around me as forced it to, magically. I lived with my brother, who worked as a plougher for a nearby farmer who paid him in half bags of flour and a basket of bread. Bread was the best and most common food in the country, becoming a necessity to the people. We also had potatoes, but very little came our way when the English takes all of them from Ireland. We used magic quietly and discretely. We knew the penalties for any form of uprising from anyone- Death.

The door rang on the hinges as my brother, Godwin, came in the door with a basket of bread which he sat on the table and took off his clothed boots. He worked hard. He never complained about it and was always wise about his magical gifts. Our house was jinxed and hexed with protective enchantments from creatures of the wild and dangerous beings.

~WIP