“In the light of the Lockwood moon,
Power of the old, come forth soon.
Claim thy destiny in inherent lands,
Restore the balance of the sacred sands.”
Lockwood, like most villages built around 1662—though no one knows for sure—is like most thatched settlements of the era: fossilized in time, held by a strand of spooled yarn to a past that belies it. Some might call it alluring, if you’re into the quaint aesthetic, of course. The progeny of the older residents would more than likely label it boring, attested to by the mass exodus of youth as soon as the bell chimes eighteen. Few remain, and even fewer return. It is not a bad place by any stretch of a vivid imagination, but one could die of nothing, languishing in the cul-de-sacs and manicured lawns.
To an outsider, the village had a captivating charm. To those who remained and called it home, it was a safe haven—a place of solitude where the trappings of modernity were kept at arm’s length. The elders still shopped in the village grocery, the cake truck still made its rounds on a Friday, and everyone attended chapel on a Sunday. If not for worship, then for conversation.
Malevolence takes many forms, and Lockwood was not without secrets. Mostly, they manifested themselves in intangible ways: an inexplicable wilted rose in a blooming orchard, an eerie stillness to a winter wind, or a sudden chill on a warm, sunny day. It was so restrained, in fact, that it was entirely possible for a resident to live their entire life without noticing anything amiss.
Isobel, born with an inquisitive spirit, had always felt these small discrepancies. She had been disconcerted by life in Lockwood since she began to perceive that the mirror in her room would momentarily show a vision that did not reflect her own, or when her shadow would take an extra heartbeat before following her movements. Her parents, simple cottars, would dismiss her offhandedly—”a bairn wi’ an oweractive imagination”—as they recounted tales of her amusing stories to the other villagers. They would laugh wholeheartedly at her whimsy and silliness. After all, the village was safe, everyone knew everyone, and nothing ever happened.
Isobel had spent her seventeen-year existence tethered to the cobblestoned streets and wisteria-clad cottages of the village. Her innate but inexplicable curiosity to explore beyond the confines of her territory crowded her dreams. Yet, whenever her thoughts manifested into a more tangible vision, she was yanked backward into a heavy, unrelenting reality.
Her solace had always been found in the ancient, towering oak. Isobel often found herself pulled towards its gnarled and twisted limbs. It had withstood the testament of time and tide. She would brush her fingers over the coarse bark, feeling the past it had observed infiltrate her blood. She often wondered if this was the draw—the one entity that kept her chained to Lockwood. She had resolved to stop visiting it once, years ago. She lasted but a single day.
As her eighteenth birthday approached, she felt the heavy weight of manacles snap onto her wrists. She would never be free. In her sleep, she could feel the coldness of steel jarring against her pale skin.
“In the light of the Lockwood moon,
Power of the old, come forth soon.
Claim thy destiny in inherent lands,
Restore the balance of the sacred sands.”
She would awaken with a startled jolt. On her wrists, the red chafe marks remained—welts of white flesh rising and bumping under her skin. She knew better than to mention it to her parents. Just another tale to tell to the congregation who would tut and sigh, “Aye, she should hae grown oot o’ that by noo,” they would say politely but with a menacing edge.
No. She had no choice but to remain silent.
As the day loomed ever closer, Isobel became increasingly disconcerted. Looking into her mirror, the face of another stared back at her. Unrelenting flames—licking and hissing—engulfed the glass until they subsided back into her own reflection. But there, on the gilded frame, black bruises—the remnants of fire. Proof that she was not losing her sanity.
Each day the mirror revealed more—faces of women, oddly familiar, their dark eyes pleading and their voices a faint murmur smothered beneath the glass. She was not afraid; rather, she felt an inexplicable connection to them. Bizarrely, she was almost comforted by their presence.
On the eve of her eighteenth birthday, a storm raged through the village. Flashing, angry welts split through the blackened sky. And in the thunder, voices tumbled low in a steady, unrelenting chant:
“In the light of the Lockwood moon,
Power of the old, come forth soon.
Claim thy destiny in inherent lands,
Restore the balance of the sacred sands.”
In the confines of her room, the mirror bubbled and smoked; faces melded and morphed as the fire engulfed their existence. The murmurs became louder, clearer: “Set us free, Isobel, set us free,” they pleaded. Louder and louder. And the flames grew, hissing and spitting the venom of fire.
Through the chaos, the massive oak, its limbs writhing under the power of the storm, beckoned her—calling, calling.
“In the light of the Lockwood moon,
Power of the old, come forth soon,”
Isobel whispered. The vast trunk of the oak shuddered before her. With a piercing screech, it rendered into two, revealing a vast hollow. Without hesitation, she stepped into the unknown.
In the heart of the majestic tree, she was met with familiar eyes. The congregation, dressed in robes of midnight blue, stared at her with simultaneous hope and hopelessness.
Isobel’s gaze lingered on those stood before her—faces of villagers, the women she had known for her entire life. There, flickering under the glow of candlelight, inside the heart of the ancient oak. Looking to her for an answer.
Mother Combs, the chapel treasurer, stepped forward, her visage reflecting a formidable resolve softened by maternal warmth, spoke carefully.
“Isobel, we welcome thee with humble grace,” Mother Combs bowed, her voice gentle but laden with earnestness. Rising and looking up at Isobel, her eyes, swilling blue with the markings of ancient knowledge, “You will doubtless have many a query,” she ushered the stunned girl forward into the center of the conclave. The whisper of rustling robes engulfed her as the coven bowed in her presence, a unified gesture of respect and anticipation. Isobel, her voice barely a whisper, stuttered, “But… why me?”
Mother Combs motioned her closer, extending a hand adorned with a silver ring emblazoned with a carved emerald depicting the twisted branches of the oak. “Because, dear child, the blood of the elder’s pulses through your lifeblood. You are Isobel Gowdie!”
The air seemed to ripple with energy as the women began to chant softly:
“In the light of the Lockwood moon,
Power of the old, come forth soon.
Claim thy destiny in inherent lands,
Restore the balance of the sacred sands.”
Isobel, caught in a maelstrom of fear, shock, and an incomprehensible consciousness of her own destiny, stepped forward, her eyes locked with Mother Combs’. In her outstretched hands lay a tome—ancient, bound in weathered leather, and sealed with wax imprinted with the emblem of a twisted tree.
“Within this tome,” Mother Combs’ voice resonated with a gravity that enlivened the sacred space, “Under the dominion of the moon concealed lies thine truth.”
Isobel, her hands trembling, reached for the tome. Her fingers brushed against the cold wax, and the seal disintegrated, revealing parchment pages inscribed with a language lost to time, yet entirely familiar to her eyes.
As her fingertips traced the ancient script, the chant of the congregation grew louder, enveloping her in a kaleidoscope of sound and light.
“In the light of the Lockwood moon,
Power of the old, come forth soon.
Claim thy destiny in inherent lands,
Restore the balance of the sacred sands.”
Isobel lifted her eyes, meeting the expectant gazes of the coven, and in that moment, she understood her own place in the destiny of Lockwood. She was the High Priestess of The Coven of the Twisted Oak. She would give voice to the oppressed voices of her ancestry. It was her destiny.
Instinctively, she held the book ceremoniously up into the air, and the echoes of the voices in the mirror resonated upwards into the Lockwood night. A stream of unadulterated pure light poured out of the branches of the ancient tree, illuminating the darkness.
On the morning of her birthday, Isobel awoke. The red welts on her wrists had vanished, and the heaviness of her manacles was relinquished. On her bedside table lay a tome, ancient and bound in weathered leather, The Confessions of Isobel Gowdie by Robert Pitcairn, 1833. She smiled softly to herself as she pulled on her coat. There was a destiny she needed to fulfill.
Placing her hands on the ancient oak, she whispered words in archaic speech, and the tree, once split, seamlessly melded into wholeness. And in that moment, Isobel, the girl of curious daydreams and the High Priestess of The Coven of the Twisted Oak, became irrevocably one.
- Canva Creation
- This is my own work and has not been generated in whole or in part by AI
0 Comments