Read Online Fate's Hand: Book One of The Celtic Prophecy by Melissa Macfie - Free Book Online
Authors: Melissa Macfie
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had arrived back home, my mind was made up. I asked your grandmother to help.
Looking back, this was the point that my life’s focus changed. I made several decisions at that moment that had nothing to do with the man I had married and the consequences that I knew would ruin what we had. Once Brian was the center of my universe, now you were.
Your father is a devout fundamentalist, as you probably know. But what you may not know is that he is, was, intolerant of all other belief systems. I’m sorry. This is hard. The husband I know and the father you will come to know may be two different people. I hope that is the case, but somehow… I doubt it.
The man I know, he didn’t accept that I had a very different religious background and asked me not only to convert but spurn it after we married. Please don’t hate me. If he knew that there was something wrong with you, he’d be convinced that if the baby died—if you died—it was the will of God.
I asked my mother to perform a protection spell for you. I had seen her perform this ritual many times, and while it wasn’t a surefire way of holding onto the pregnancy, I hoped that it would shift it more into the realm of possibility. She didn’t respond at first, taking me up and depositing me in her bed; but minutes later, I heard the noise as she tore apart her stillroom looking for the ingredients.
She reappeared with a basket brimming with things she’d need. She took out her grimoire, the page of the protection spell dog-eared, and she ran through the list of ingredients to be sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. She took out her mortar and pestle and began by grinding pine needles—the smell wafted through the room almost instantly.
As Leo muttered under her breath, I saw the telltale sign of the working of a spell; the iridescent runes glowing brightly under her skin. She set up candles at six points in the room, four at exact compass points. The fifth, she climbed precariously on the bed to put in the hanging candelabra above the it for spirit, and the last one she made me hold for body.
She put the ground pine needles at the bottom of the bed in the pestle and tied a sprig of lavender to the brass headboard. She kissed my cheek then, and began chanting in earnest. She lit the candles, called the Spirits, and then laid small stones on my stomach individually. I remember the meaning behind her choice of stones because she declared them in her chant, though I cannot remember all the words. The first was amethyst—to transform my pain into healing, the next, bloodstone—to instill courage. Blue tourmaline was the third, placed to help connect the body and mind to allow faith to heal me physically. The fourth stone was obsidian. Working in harmony with the tourmaline it would grant access to the strength of my faith to heal me. Specific to the reproductive system, tiger’s eye was chosen as the fifth stone to provide balance and strength to get through the process.
I must have made some sort of protest when the dagger appeared and my mother sliced her palm and then reached for my hand with her bloodied one. She looked at me abruptly, stopping the chant for a few beats and ruthlessly grabbed my arm. She sliced my palm, ignored my hiss of pain, then grabbed the hand with her own and forcefully squeezed the open wounds together so the blood mingled as it fell upon the sixth candle in my other hand.
Her tone changed markedly and became quiet. In direct opposition, the stones became warm, unnaturally warm; but I did not struggle as my mother guided my hands to cradle my growing child, and placed her own on the top of my belly.
With the last words of the incantation, it was as if the air and energy of the room expended itself in one burst of light and heat concentrated on the crystals. The crystals grew painfully bright, and I gasped for air several times, allowing a great whoosh of air into my lungs, and then all five stones burst into fine shimmering powder
Looking back, this was the point that my life’s focus changed. I made several decisions at that moment that had nothing to do with the man I had married and the consequences that I knew would ruin what we had. Once Brian was the center of my universe, now you were.
Your father is a devout fundamentalist, as you probably know. But what you may not know is that he is, was, intolerant of all other belief systems. I’m sorry. This is hard. The husband I know and the father you will come to know may be two different people. I hope that is the case, but somehow… I doubt it.
The man I know, he didn’t accept that I had a very different religious background and asked me not only to convert but spurn it after we married. Please don’t hate me. If he knew that there was something wrong with you, he’d be convinced that if the baby died—if you died—it was the will of God.
I asked my mother to perform a protection spell for you. I had seen her perform this ritual many times, and while it wasn’t a surefire way of holding onto the pregnancy, I hoped that it would shift it more into the realm of possibility. She didn’t respond at first, taking me up and depositing me in her bed; but minutes later, I heard the noise as she tore apart her stillroom looking for the ingredients.
She reappeared with a basket brimming with things she’d need. She took out her grimoire, the page of the protection spell dog-eared, and she ran through the list of ingredients to be sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. She took out her mortar and pestle and began by grinding pine needles—the smell wafted through the room almost instantly.
As Leo muttered under her breath, I saw the telltale sign of the working of a spell; the iridescent runes glowing brightly under her skin. She set up candles at six points in the room, four at exact compass points. The fifth, she climbed precariously on the bed to put in the hanging candelabra above the it for spirit, and the last one she made me hold for body.
She put the ground pine needles at the bottom of the bed in the pestle and tied a sprig of lavender to the brass headboard. She kissed my cheek then, and began chanting in earnest. She lit the candles, called the Spirits, and then laid small stones on my stomach individually. I remember the meaning behind her choice of stones because she declared them in her chant, though I cannot remember all the words. The first was amethyst—to transform my pain into healing, the next, bloodstone—to instill courage. Blue tourmaline was the third, placed to help connect the body and mind to allow faith to heal me physically. The fourth stone was obsidian. Working in harmony with the tourmaline it would grant access to the strength of my faith to heal me. Specific to the reproductive system, tiger’s eye was chosen as the fifth stone to provide balance and strength to get through the process.
I must have made some sort of protest when the dagger appeared and my mother sliced her palm and then reached for my hand with her bloodied one. She looked at me abruptly, stopping the chant for a few beats and ruthlessly grabbed my arm. She sliced my palm, ignored my hiss of pain, then grabbed the hand with her own and forcefully squeezed the open wounds together so the blood mingled as it fell upon the sixth candle in my other hand.
Her tone changed markedly and became quiet. In direct opposition, the stones became warm, unnaturally warm; but I did not struggle as my mother guided my hands to cradle my growing child, and placed her own on the top of my belly.
With the last words of the incantation, it was as if the air and energy of the room expended itself in one burst of light and heat concentrated on the crystals. The crystals grew painfully bright, and I gasped for air several times, allowing a great whoosh of air into my lungs, and then all five stones burst into fine shimmering powder
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