Tomorrows Child

Chapter 1 ~ DAUGHTER OF THE APOCALYPSE

In the hours before dawn, there is peace. A quiet stillness reaches across the land and deep shadows obscure the reality of life. There is peace in this nothingness. I know I’m not safe, but for a while I can pretend that everything is okay.

Soon the sun will rise and wash away the emptiness, and this brief peace will be replaced by the bleak reality of life. For a while, I thought I could embrace the darkness; it was easier than looking for joy. But as the days passed, the darkness became an entity, consuming my life and pressing against my soul.

I am Psyche Darnell, daughter of the apocalypse, an orphan of the end of times.

When I close my eyes, I imagine how things once were. I can see people walking along sidewalks and in malls, chatting, laughing and drinking coffee from paper cups. Shop assistants chat as they scan food and pack groceries into crinkly plastic bags. Even the smell of fumes from the endless procession of cars stays etched in my mind.

All this is gone.

I was born in the days when rock stars were heroes and Facebook ruled. Life wasn’t perfect, but it was predictable and safe. In those days, you could ignore the bad stuff if you wanted to, which most of us did. It was easier than worrying about a world we felt we couldn’t change.

Many say that life was destined to end this way and that the prophets had given us ample warning, but if this were our destiny, there would have been nothing we could have done to change the outcome. Others claimed we were given the gift of free will, not to save the world, but to enjoy our time while it lasted and nothing more.

I think they’re all wrong.

But what I think doesn’t matter anymore; neither does the truth. Nevertheless, beyond blame and truth, people suffered. We all suffered.

Farmland became salted wastelands and deserts turned into floodplains. Food crops failed and genetically modified sludge filled our bellies. Famine weakened nations and sickness spread like gossip, but this was in the early days of government-managed relief camps. Eventually, even the tasteless sludge ran out and Utopia became a dream lost to the horrifying reality of life on earth.

It didn’t happen overnight. If it had, we would have set aside a day to remember the dead and celebrate life. Looking back, we realised it took years to get this bad, we just never noticed when it all began. The dark days, the ones we remember as the end of the world, lasted just a few months. The population of planet earth, once almost seven billion, was now just a few million.

If you ask me, the lucky ones were not the survivors, but the people who died in the early days, before the famine and the plague. Still, there were survivors and as we know, where there is life, there is hope, even if it is only a tiny glimmer. With hope, that is enough.

I am a survivor, so is Libby.

Libby is my grandmother, my mother’s mother. Libby is a stranger to me although she is the only family I have left in the world. She lives in a valley protected by tropical rainforest, supported by a group of friends who saw the end coming and prepared. They are self-sufficient and live entirely off the land. In many ways, it is a lifestyle based on an obsession to survive, but it’s not the only obsession in their lives.

Libby is obsessed by the old religion. She worships the goddess and practices magick. This was a new experience for me, but for Mum it was normal; it was how she grew up. Beyond the necessary changes to our lives to ensure our survival, I also had to adjust to a religion I didn’t understand. Even doing the dishes became an exercise in ritual and routine.

The kitchen, according to Libby was the heart of the home, by tradition, and an altar to the Goddess, by design. Working in the kitchen provided time to reflect, to give thanks and to honour the Goddess. Libby held our earth mother in the highest esteem, but she also allowed room for other deities in her home, paying homage to whomever or whatever the situation called for.

We observed the cycles of the earth and our days were organised by the phases of the moon. This is how it always was and how it was meant to be, Libby said. I adjusted to the routine easily, it was weird and a little crazy, but so was everything else these days.

Magick had never been part of my life as it had been for my mother and grandmother and a dozen generations of Darnell women before them. But now that we were home, Libby expected me to make up for the lost years. Mum had sheltered me from the magick when I was young, hoping that I would be happier and safer growing up away from the madness. She claimed that living under the shadow of magick had made her life miserable.

So I was initially raised away from my grandmother and a heritage that dated back hundreds of years. Libby argued that we had wasted time, time when I should have been learning and preparing for the future, but I didn’t learn about any of this until recently. I knew they had a big disagreement about something, but I didn’t know it was about me.

Only after we arrived home did my mother reveal the truth about our family, a legacy and a prophecy that bound us to the past and dictated our future. Mum said it was more of a curse than a blessing; while Libby had dedicated her life to preserving the secret and preparing for the future. She just expected us to do the same.

Without knowing the effect it would have on my life, I promised Libby I would make up for the lost years and begin the lessons that she considered mandatory for our survival. Mum’s attitude flipped overnight. Suddenly she feared she had left it too late and admitted it was a mistake to isolate me from my heritage. It all seemed a little melodramatic and the significance of my promise was not as important to me as it was to everyone else, but the relationship between Mum and Libby improved and peace finally arrived in the Darnell household.

It wasn’t always like this, in the old days, I was happy. I grew up living a gypsy’s life with my mother travelling with the wind and sleeping when the sun set. Life was easy back then. I admit we didn’t really travel on the wind, we drove an old Bedford bus, but it made our life an adventure.

When it became obvious that the world was beyond repair, we headed north to the safety of my mother’s childhood home. As we travelled, we listened to the radio and watched civilisation dissolve before our eyes. Reports of tragedy and despair filled the airwaves as some organisation kept track of the devastation, watching the world’s population decline while recording the death toll; but they didn’t report the numbers in the final days. There was no need.

We arrived at Libby’s in the summer, amidst tropical storms and warm summer rain that eased the heat and washed away the horrors of life. There was no celebration to mark our arrival or acknowledge the changing seasons or the start of a new year. Instead, we watched civilisation take its final breath and all that we took for granted vanish. We mourned for those who had lost their lives, for humanity and for ourselves, but we were the lucky ones; we were safe and we were alive.

For a time, I was glad we had returned to Mum’s childhood home and my birthplace, but time passed slowly and the serenity was short-lived. If I had known at the time, I would have embraced these precious days, but I couldn’t see into the future and didn’t know how precious they would become.

When the fever arrived, we hoped it was nothing more than a common cold, but deadly fevers shrouded the new world and influenza killed millions. We knew it could get a lot worse. Within days, Mum grew weak and pale and the fever made her delirious until she was barely conscious. We waited in vain for the fever to break.

Without hospitals, our only access to medicine consisted of herbal remedies and concoctions brewed in the kitchen. Libby called it delirium fever as if that were a proper diagnosis. She treated Mum with tinctures and teas and soaked her feet in herbal brews. Then we wrapped her body in hot cloths to draw out the poison. Libby even hung magick charms from the bed head to chase away mysterious things and she cleansed the room with incense and smoking sage. We treated everything from influenza to demonic curses. Nothing helped.

Nine days after the fever appeared, my mother died.

Some men, strangers then, dug a grave at the bottom of the garden and did what neither Libby nor I had the heart to do. They lowered her body into the ground and covered my beautiful mother with damp earth.

We stood on the edge of the grave that day, under a grey sky, in the misty rain and said our final goodbyes. I watched the rain fall on the red dirt and trickle into the grave, forming little rivers that looked like blood flowing from the earth. Libby spoke words of love and told stories about the girl she used to know. I said nothing.

My world changed in an instant; the sanity was gone and darkness replaced the only love I had ever known. At first, it was unbearable, the ache in my heart, unimaginable. I wanted to die, I wished for it to come. I even thought I could end my life and join my mother. I tried, but I failed. I doubted Libby would mourn my passing, she hardly knew me. There was no one else.

I prayed that I would go to sleep and not wake up. But each morning, I would wake with my eyelashes crusted in salt. Tears formed before I opened my eyes and a bitter acidic taste burned my throat. I wallowed in the grief of my life and waited to die. And I waited.

Until, one day, I no longer wanted to die.

Chapter 2 ~ EVERY DAUGHTER’S DAUGHTER

A labyrinth of paths wove in and out of Libby’s garden. Vegetables grew beneath fruit trees and vines rambled over the hen house. Herbs grew everywhere, scattered in the garden like weeds. Delicate herbs were pampered in pots while others had become rambling hedges. There was no space wasted and nothing left untended. It had to be this way if we were going to survive.

It’s possible that I could get lost wandering in Libby’s garden, more than possible, actually; my sense of direction is appalling. I am probably the only teenage girl capable of getting lost in a shopping centre, or at least I used to.

If Libby's garden is a labyrinth, then her house is Aladdin’s cave, but not the type of cave filled with riches and treasure. Hers was more like an eclectic hoarder’s cave with storage for every useful tool and device invented in the past hundred years. I didn’t know everything that Libby had stashed away for the next rainy day, but her motivation made sense in an obsessive kind of way.

Noise in the kitchen told me that Libby was awake. I knew her routine: stoke the fire in the woodstove, boil water for tea and prepare oat porridge for breakfast. Some days it was eggs, but I could smell the oats cooking; today it was porridge. I let the sun bathe my face for just a moment longer before joining her.

Morning, Libby, I said as I forced a smile.

Good morning, Psyche. You’re up early. Libby was already dressed and drinking tea when I sat at the table. She didn’t look old enough to be my grandmother or at least, she never looked like the grandmother I expected. Today, her grey hair was pulled away from her face to reveal tiny creases around her blue eyes. She didn’t have deep wrinkles, her movements weren’t slow and she didn’t complain about her aging body. She was youthful and energetic, sprite was the term she used to define herself, and I thought that described her perfectly.

Are you ready to start your lessons today? I knew Libby wasn’t sure how I would answer. She refused to watch me wallow in grief any longer and made me promise that I would leave my room and choose to live. I made this promise reluctantly, but I also promised that I would participate in the family legacy and catch up on the lost years. I still wasn’t sure what this meant, but I made the promise anyway; it seemed such a small thing compared to everything else. I’d just spent the better part of three months living in exile, wallowing in self-pity, treating Libby as if she didn’t exist and behaving like a spoilt child. Guilt oozed as the realisation hit me and I felt ashamed for the first time. Mum would have been disappointed.

Sure, I shrugged, today is as good a day as any. I swallowed the lump of guilt and smiled again.

Perfect, she said, today is a wonderful day for magick. Libby leapt from her chair and pulled a large book from one of the shelves that lined the walls. They held hundreds of books. I hadn’t bothered to read the spines to see what subjects interested her; perhaps today I would.

This is our family diary; it is a tradition that we pass from mother to daughter. Libby paused and held her hand to her heart, But we also have our own. Your Mum and I have a similar book and you will begin writing in yours today.

Libby noticed the look on my face and frowned, It’s more than just a diary or history book, it’s an instruction manual for life. It’s our family’s Book of Shadows. It holds all the wisdom I have learnt, the lessons my mother taught me and all that her mother taught her. Generations of Darnell women have contributed to the information in this book.

I took the old book and opened the cover. A musty odour escaped from the yellowing pages. I noticed that some of the entries were very old, while others were quite new. There appeared to be no particular order to the entries, not by date or category, nothing seemed to organise the information. But I held the book carefully and couldn’t help but acknowledge a certain reverence for the seemingly ancient text.

I knew that these pages contained secrets about my family and a prophecy that secured my destiny. I should have felt the weight of this, but I didn’t. The prophecy was the madness Mum had referred to. This was going to be interesting.

Libby flicked through the book and stopped at a page covered in writing too small to read from across the table. This ink was black and written in a messy script. There were places where the ink blurred and ran into the word next to it, but on the next page, the same words were written neatly, the inked text, crisp and clear. This was the prophecy.

A light tap at the door caught my attention; it was Phoenix. His family lived next door and they were Libby’s surrogate family. She had known Phoenix since birth and he was a regular visitor. He was also the only neighbour brave enough to spend time in the presence of Libby’s lifeless granddaughter.

Hi Libby; hi Psyche, Phoenix’s smile warmed the room as he greeted us. You’re looking better today.

Phoenix was well aware I had spent most of my time in bed or sulking in the garden. When he visited, he made small talk or silently sat next to me in a futile attempt to help me deal with my grief. I ignored him and hoped he would go away, but he never did.

I felt the heat of Phoenix's gaze and looked up to see him watching me, staring, really. It was long enough to make me feel uncomfortable. I looked away. He seemed to be searching for something or waiting for me to respond to some unspoken question, but I had nothing to say so he turned to Libby and asked, Do you need fire wood? I have to split logs for Mum and thought you might need some too.

It was Phoenix’s responsibility to split firewood for everyone, so normally he didn’t ask, he just turned up with logs and filled the wood box. Libby accepted Phoenix's offer, and we continued with the lesson.

A new leather-bound book had appeared on the table. Embossed in the centre of the burgundy cover was an unfamiliar symbol. Libby explained that this was my name, written as a witch’s symbol, just as it would have been four hundred years ago. Engraved at the top of the cover was a crescent moon. A leather cord wrapped around the book and held it closed, keeping its secrets safe from prying eyes.

My fingers trembled as I carefully unwound the cord, consumed by expectation. Folding the leather cover back, I noticed that the pages were smooth and creamy, but they were all blank. I imagined the book would hold the secrets that Libby spoke about. I expected the magick to leap out, devouring me like a hungry beast… that’s what I imagined anyway.

This is your book, Psyche. You must fill the pages with the lessons important to you. Your words will fill this book, not mine, not your mother’s.

I was afraid of what the book contained, but now that I'd discovered the pages were blank, part of me was disappointed. I was far too boring and not at all magical. There was no point writing anything in my newly acquired Book of Shadows or filling the pristine pages with messy scribble.

Sweetie, you look disappointed when you should be excited.

It’s just, I was expecting more… or something. It meant a lot to Libby and I smiled, trying to muster up some enthusiasm. She turned to the prophecy in the old book and began to read…

Listen to me, daughters of yew, willow and oak

Listen to me, children of the earth

You have kept the faith beyond the days of the hunt

You have kept the promise,

The earth is your mother and she knows your heart

These words are your gift, and this gift is your guidance,

hear me well

The veil that protects you is the veil that protects all

The veil will fail in the era of the Ninth Daughter

This is the age of endings and of beginnings

From daughter to daughter nine times

For my knowledge is your knowledge and your knowledge is her knowledge

This link, from you to the ninth daughter shall remain unbroken

Always enduring, always eternal

The first daughter is the keeper of ancient wisdom

The second will keep the secrets hidden

The third is the pretender and walks unseen

The fourth daughter is the seer and she will see the way

The fifth seeks the ancient land

The sixth is the circle-maker and she will find the sacred place

The seventh is the death speaker, she will lead the way

The eighth daughter sings the songs that heal our mother

All this will pass to the ninth daughter

The knowledge from the first and the gifts from all

The ninth daughter is the dreamer of dreams

She is the keeper of secrets, the custodian of the stone

She is every daughter’s daughter, she is the last

Embrace these words, my daughters,

for this is my sacred gift to you.

I sat silently, absorbing the words. I could feel my heart beating and hear the sound of my breath. Libby sat with her eyes closed; she may have kept them closed the entire time; perhaps she knew this verse by heart.

Psyche, this is your heritage, this is the promise we are sworn to keep. I took an oath when I was twelve and your mother did the same. You’re seventeen, Psyche, so much wasted time… Libby’s eyes glistened with unshed tears as a memory from the past flicked across her mind.

This is the first entry for your book and now would be a good time to begin, she handed me a pen and I began to write. My scrawly writing etched across the paper. The daughters’ words filled my head; perhaps it was the importance of the words or maybe the words themselves that held the magick. I imagined the daughters, living through the ages, sitting and writing the same words I wrote. I could see the clothes they wore, the rooms in which they sat. I could hear the sounds and smell the aromas that infused their lives.

When I finished, I sat speechless, no words were necessary. Libby sat across from me looking… smiling… it was the same look Phoenix had given me earlier that day.

You need to rest, she said. Let’s have morning tea. Phoenix will be here soon anyway and that boy is always hungry.

As Libby boiled the water and put leaves in an old china teapot, she spoke about the first daughter. I’m not sure if this was conversation or education, perhaps both.

"The first daughter, Mary Darnell was born in the 1700s. The official witch trials had been over for a while, though the persecution continued. In those days, all women were viewed suspiciously, especially midwives and healers. Walking in the woods alone or miscarrying a child was enough to be accused of witchcraft. Mary grew up with this fear and it forced her to keep the knowledge a secret, even from her own husband.

The sad thing is that it wasn’t knowledge that warranted death, it was wisdom passed down from mother to daughter since time began. It was the wisdom of the earth, the knowledge to heal and an understanding of the cycles of nature and life. However, it was wisdom and knowledge held mostly by women who honoured the Goddess in a world dominated by men who worshipped a jealous God. In the end, it was more about power and fear than anything substantial.

So they really did murder women for witchcraft?

They murdered millions: men, women and children.

I thought this was a myth, like unicorns and fairies. I have a vivid imagination, but I’d never given much thought to witches or the myths that surround magick and mythical creatures. Venturing beyond the pages of a fairytale was new territory for my imagination.

What did your mother teach you? I am surprised she never talked about the witch trials.

So what’s the story of the prophecy, where did it come from? I was still trying to figure out if this were true or not.

The story I have been told is that Mary was walking in the forest and heard a voice. I imagine she was afraid. In those days, it was believed that women were tempted by the devil and often visited the forest to meet him in privacy. It was nonsense, of course, but the fear was real. They say a beautiful woman appeared, eased Mary’s fear, and spoke the words of the prophecy. Mary memorised the words and passed them on to her daughter. Those words are remembered here, in this book, and their knowledge is recorded so that we know about the gift and the promise.

Libby smiled then and a twinkle sparkled mischievously in her eyes. But remember, Psyche, myths are only stories - stories about a time long forgotten and a place, hidden from the everyday. But myths contain many truths. Nowadays, we resist the truth or simply choose not to remember, but it’s all connected. Everything is part of the energy and the story of the earth, the myths and the legends, the hearts of men and women, the imagination of children and the magick.

Phoenix had been standing at the door for a few minutes, listening and smiling. I wondered if he believed this or if his smile was a sign of humour. It didn’t matter I guess, I was doing this to please an old woman who, like me, was grieving.

Phoenix, we’ve been waiting. You’re a little late. Come and sit and have some tea and bread. Libby spoke as if Phoenix had provided his schedule for the day, but this wasn’t the case. He said nothing more than he would split wood, but Libby always seemed to be waiting for things to happen and answering questions that were never asked.

Phoenix sat across from me, his cup filled with murky liquid, just like mine. Tea with Libby meant that you drank whatever herbal brew she’d prepared that day. I smelt my cup but couldn’t recognise the herbs. Libby used a lot of peppermint during the day, but I think that was mostly to mask the bitter taste of the other herbs. I dripped globs of golden honey into my cup in an effort to make it more palatable.

Hey guys! Navarre exclaimed as he stood at the door, Hi Psyche. Navarre was seventeen and Phoenix’s younger brother. The boys had two sisters. Raven was sixteen and Jalani only four. Their parents were Ruben and Tahinah.

There’s a group of us going into town tomorrow. You know it’s Sunday, and it’s supposed to be market day. Dad thought some of the locals might be thinkin’ the same and head into town too. Don’t expect the markets to be runnin’, but maybe we can find out what’s going on and well you know… see who’s still alive and stuff. Navarre spoke fast; his words ran together like one endless sentence.

Also Mum thought since Psyche was… feeling better she might like to come over for dinner on Tuesday. There’s a full moon. Finally, Navarre took a breath, but he didn’t look at me when he spoke and addressed his question solely to Libby.

Dinner would be wonderful, but the markets? Do you know what the plan is?

Dad is going to drive in. The cruiser still runs, but fuel is a problem… You know the rule, emergencies only, but I think this is an emergency, sort of anyway. Lachlan is taking the Jeep so he can only fit four, but we can take seven. Mum’s not going, she reckons it’s asking for trouble; but said you’ll want to check in on some people on the way.

She’s right of course. But I thought the plan might be to walk. Don’t know if these ‘young’ legs would get me to town and home again. If you’re not walking, you can tell Ruben that Psyche and I will come.

What do you think, Psyche? Navarre finally looked at me and waited for a reply.

Hmm, yeah, I guess.

Libby, Phoenix and Navarre chatted about the trip to town, which had created a bit of excitement. I nodded, smiled, and pretended to take notice. My mind was elsewhere. I was thinking about the prophecy; it didn’t make a lot of sense. I couldn’t get the connection between it and me. As secrets go, it seemed a bit lame. It was kinda cool having something from my ancestors written hundreds of years ago, but the words meant little to me. It wasn’t as if I was about to meet these women, nor was it likely that I would be required to keep the secret. People practiced witchcraft openly these days. With no threat of death, there was little reason for the fuss. No wonder Mum thought it madness.

I opened the book and ran my fingers across the words - I could hear the women again, whispering the secret until the words became embedded in their hearts. The chatting in the room had turned to silence. I looked up then. Phoenix and Libby had that same searching look they gave me earlier. What were they looking for? Grief perhaps. In truth, it bubbled beneath the surface, waiting to expose itself. Maybe it would eventually, and I’d slip back in to the dark world I’d so recently escaped.

Phoenix has offered to show you around, if you’re up to it. It’s important that you find your way; it’s very easy to get lost around here. Libby stood and waited for us to leave. She seemed to be in a hurry to get us out the door and I wondered what else I’d missed.

Chapter 3 ~ A TOUCH OF MAGICK

Phoenix was pleasant enough. Although I had seen him most days, I never really had much to do with him. As I wallowed, misery and grief became the foundation of my life. It insulated me from everything and consumed my every thought. Phoenix, on the other hand, was helping the families that lived nearby to continue life with some sort of normalcy.

I noticed him today as if it were the first day. Standing in front of me was a tall, dark-haired man. As the sun fell across his face, I saw he really was good-looking. His violet eyes intrigued me and his smile was cautious and cheeky, like someone with a secret. If life had been different, I may have let my teenage hormones flow with images of what could be.

We walked along the twisted paths that meandered through the labyrinth and past the gardens. A cornucopia of herbs, vegetables and fruit trees grew wild and appeared, to the untrained eye, to be in disarray. Like mine for instance. Libby assured me that the garden grew exactly as it should. The yard sloped beyond the gardens, ran into the rainforest and flowed towards the creek. Massive gums and pines formed a sentry around the perimeter, like ominous guardians, protecting the forest from trespassers and intruders.

Phoenix walked straight into the forest, with me following. He didn’t hesitate or seem to notice the guardians or the darkness that existed beyond the boundary. The air became cooler as soon as we stepped under the canopy. Leaves covered the ground thickly in some areas, all in various stages of decay and a mouldy odour erupted under the pressure of our feet. The earthy smell was comforting in an unusual way. It almost smelt familiar. It was as if I should recognise the smells and welcome the memories they brought to mind. But I had no recollection of the forest or the musty, rotting leaves and evoking old memories was something I wanted to avoid.

Phoenix was a good