Blackthorn Straif

Long into the black and moonless night, she found herself unable to move,this included her eyes which remained open and fixed.The wind was gently rustling around her. She felt the movement through what used to be her hair; each hair being individually lifted away from her dry scalp. The breeze caused a sensation of movement and murmuring sound which reminded her of open book pages being turned by the invisible hand of the Wind.

She willed her arms to move but realized she no longer had just two-but many. She felt the swaying and swinging of many being propelled by the wind as it rustled through the small twiggish ones. It was a most pleasant feeling in its smooth and soothing rhythm- like the rocking of a cradle. Laying in a bough cradle and looking up to see green everywhere in a mosaic of verdant leaves and blue sky chips patterned in the sunlight seeping down to her young eyes, was one of her earliest memories.

In her vain attempts to move her legs and propel herself forward into the woods which surrounded her she discovered that of her which had been separate limbs was now fused into a solid trunk. Her sense of self flowed with the movement allowed by the free Wind. It helped her to discover her new arboreal form. Vain and haughty in her human form, she was no different as a Blackthorn tree. She had an awareness of her visual appearance which could only be described as striking white blossoms clinging to and clothing her dark thorny branches. It was the inverse of her human snow white skin and black flowing tendrils of hair, but nevertheless, strikingly beautiful she appeared to the humans who had once and still did, fear her.Lack of mobility had confined her power but neither did it lesson nor extinguish her will to use it.Though it was diminished by her frozen state, it was not impossible for her to wield magic.

After the days became seasons, seasons flowed into years and the years turned into decades; spending eons of quiet and resourceful contemplation, her powers were fully restored and could be used against those who would chop and burn her kind. They would suffer and regret, they would learn to respect and fear her once more.

The Druids, the men of trees, showed their allegiance to her. Timidly knocking on her wood with their craven poles of hawthorn (which was her sister’s form), they awoke her to their pleadings and misery. She could not help but listen and whisper her soft lies back to their foolish hopes.

This season was hers and the chill winds of winter had come to answer her beckoning. The Druids brought an offering of blood and spat it onto her dark face. Blood spatter, turned black from crimson, flowed down her trunk and dripped from her virgin white blossoms. They were pleading for a mild winter to come. Their sacrifice pleased her, but her fierce nature could not be swayed by mere calf’s blood. They would learn that to appease her joy of barren land eaten alive with cold and frost, she required a more precious gift. The next season came and went, went and came another, until after five more years of freezing death and winter starvation for the humans they did her bidding and offered one of their own. He was a strong young man, but a criminal in their midst, so a fair choice for the Druids to sacrifice. Let kind be given to kind their prayers-spake- not in love of the Blackthorn goddess, but in fear and hatred of her cruelty. His blood tasted sweetly of young life and strength. She cared not for what he meant to the humans, only that they had paid her price. To reward their devotion, Blackthorn gave herself to the Northwind which assured his furor towards man would be lessened that year as she gently spoke into his anger sweet whisperings of her ravaged thorns tearing at their bodies in the coming season of barren life and chilled fragile flesh. She promised Wind to bring the people adversity when they gathered and burned her dry wood. For, though the winter would be mild, her wooden flesh used to build fires to warm their huts and cook the gruel with, carried woe and misfortune when they dared to burn it. Seasons came, seasons went, and they learned the hard lesson of not burning her boughs for fear of her name Straif and the strife she would cause them for that act. Humans were simple creatures that loved to complicate things with their vain attempts to control her powers. They could not.

Yes, they had been the ones to cause her human form to be locked into the Blackthorn. They accomplished such an impossible feat with the aid of her sister, Hawthorn, who also was in human form at that time. It was her love of man that caused the sisters to become eternal forces in the shadowy darkness of the wood. Hawthorn held the power to enter the Gateway to the Otherworld. Living there were the Tuatha De Danann (powerful deities banished to this realm by the humans themselves).

Hawthorn wanted to use her powers to release the gods once more, but her plan failed. A powerful Druid priest discovered her attempt and followed her into the Otherworld. A debate that lasted centuries began.

Hawthorn spoke:

“I will be Queen of all when I release you”, she bargained with the gods.

They disagreed with that prospect. The world of man was theirs to rule as well.

“She or her sister will destroy the humans-or in the least, cause them to revert back to their first form of straw and dung”, argued the Druid. “They will be dumb then and cannot feel your wrath or punishment.”

On and on the argument went but never once did the witch or wizard promise the gods what they wanted most: To have free reign over the misery of humans. To be able to feast upon the pain and misery of man.

Realizing their loss, the ancient gods sealed and shut the entrance between the two worlds. The Druid and Hawthorn pleaded to be released to where their powers held sway and balance. At last, after many more bargainings and pleas the gods came to an agreement with Hawthorn and the Druid:

“We will allow you to return, but Hawthorn and her sister will only be allowed back into the Druid’s world as wood and leaf- not flesh and blood.”

“They may have their powers, but in different forms that the Druids will be guided by. We will be allowed to ravage man every 200 years with wars, famine floods and disease.”, demanded the gods.

This arrangement was agreed upon and it was thus that Blackthorn awoke to a chilly Spring night with her eyes sealed open and her human heart and tongue stilled forever. Her only connection to their powers was needing to be re-formed in the most ancient craft of all: Nature.

This Spring night, eons since her transformation,Blackthorn looked out upon an evening of full moonlight to see in the distance a farmer’s field.Dwelling in the center, in her Queenly form, stood Hawthorn alone, regal and chaste. She no longer could enter the realm of the Otherworld, but she had maintained an immense power of becoming the Gateway to it. Around her majesty danced the human creatures-Blackthorn’s nemeses of the ages.

"How could Hawthorn enjoy- lo, permit these ridiculously bloodless celebrations the humans offered in her name?", she wondered at a thing not feeling right to her nature.

“Ahhh”, she sighed as her leaves swayed in the breezy Southwind’s kiss. She’d have centuries to ponder that puzzle as the fragrant scent of her blossoms filled the air.