Free Empty Altars by Judith Post Page B

stunned to speak.
    Gudrun looked at Diana's basket, and the old seer grinned. "Clever witch. You're using Heid's arrogance against her."
    "Your dark witch made a big mistake." Diana set the basket on the ground. "Each person take a twig or a clump of leaves. Plant them. When we're done, we'll join hands and make magic of our own. We'll need twelve of you for that. I'll make thirteen."
    "A coven?" Tyr asked.
    "If you trust me."
    "With our lives." He gave her a long look.
    The familiar heat crept into her cheeks. She needed to busy herself. "Space them around the wall," she said. "And if there are any seeds left from last year, sprinkle them."
    The sun beat down on them. Sweat trickled between Diana’s breasts and down her spine. Her fingernails were filthy. The dirt here was hard and packed. Gravel and stones littered it. Her knees were bloodied from kneeling over the tiny shoots and carefully placing them. By the time they finished, she could barely straighten to her full height.
    Seedlings surrounded the entire fence. Diana motioned the others to her. They didn’t look any better than she did. Only Gudrun had remained in the shade of the log fence to watch. Diana counted—Freya, Inga, Tyr, Jorunda, and Gudrun. Where could she find seven more? The gates opened and a muscular, stunted man stepped toward them, along with a tall, plain woman, a teenaged boy, and four children of various ages. The man bowed slightly. "Gudrun's told us of you. We welcome you, goddess. I'm Olaf and this is my wife and our children, except for him." He gestured toward the teenaged boy. "Brandr's my apprentice."
    When Diana returned his bow, the dwarf staggered in surprise. She said, "I thank you, blacksmith, for your support and hard work."
    "Will this magic save our village?"
    "Not on its own, but it will help. All you have to do is believe in me." She cast a circle and they joined hands. Breezes sprang up and clouds whipped overhead. The earth tremored beneath their feet, ready to respond to anything she asked of it. Magic buzzed in the air. Diana planted her feet and let the energy flow to her. As her chant began, the clouds darkened.
    Inga gripped Diana's hand so tightly, it was painful. Diana raised her voice and droplets fell from the sky—blood red. Diana focused on them, willing life into each one. The drops formed into berries before they hit the dirt—small, red berries with pentagrams on their ends. Rowans. Not strong enough to become trees, but useful just the same. When they splatted, new shoots sprang up. Then the droplets stopped, and rain fell, warm and steady. The ravens' twigs and the leaf clusters they'd planted pushed toward the sky—strong and tall. The big trees rimmed the wooden fence. No black magic could pass them. The smaller sprouts stretched and thrived, but instead of shooting skyward, they grew sideways, forming a thick, heavy hedge. As Diana's words died, the rain grew gentle, then ceased. The winds blew themselves out. Inga's grip lessened, and finally, the rain stopped. Everything felt fresh and pure.
    Gudrun cackled with joy. "Bravo, goddess!"
    Diana blinked, bringing herself back to the present, her energy depleted. She reached out a hand to steady herself and Tyr rested it on his left arm. "Be kind to yourself, woman. You've given us much."
    He was always grateful. Diana had never seen that in a god. She considered herself lucky when mere mortals noticed her blessings.
    Inga's fingers shook as she gently brushed the leaves of the hedge that circled the fields. "This is too wonderful to imagine."
    The village's gate opened and Griswold strode toward them, a young warrior at his side. He looked at the tall rowan trees near the fence and the hedge in front of his crops. "I heard the rumors. Giants destroyed the groves in the forest. They can destroy these too. What other magic do you have, witch?"
    Tyr's body grew rigid, his expression dark. "Know your place, chieftain! She's a goddess, not a witch to do your