Staff & Blade

Chapter 1: Seven Against the Storm

  The day had been unusually hot this April day in northern Alabama and the hundreds of campers, vendors, and guest at historic Fort Toulouse had suffered in the muggy air since dawn. To make matters worse, all camper and vendors were dressed in attire correct for the French & Indian War of the mid-1700’s. Most of the males had long since retired from the view of the visiting tourist in order to shed their thick linen shirts, wool stockings and heavy waistcoats. The women too were seeking what comfort they could when out of the public eye by hiking up their skirts and shedding petticoats.

  When dark clouds began to form in the western skies that afternoon everyone in the primitive camps were looking to the skies with high hopes of a cooling shower. At five o’clock sharp in the afternoon a rumor spread quickly through the State Park that the cloud were more than simple spring showers – and far more hazardous. A band of super-cells had formed in the counties to the west and no less than four tornadoes had already been confirmed as having touched down leaving massive destruction and an unknown number of casualties in their wake. Tourist began leaving immediately; some running in a panic for their cars parked almost a half mile away from the primitive wooden fort on the banks of the Coosa and Tallapoosa Rivers. In the camps the re-enactors hurried to place firewood under their valued wooden camp chest. Trade goods ranging from colorful beads to leather goods were quickly, though carefully, crated. Valuable handmade flintlock rifles and smoothbores were carefully wrapped against the coming rain while the sound of mallets was heard everywhere as campers drove stakes deep into the soft earth to add additional tied-downs for the period correct canvas tents and lean-tos. Some went to their vehicles with their valuables and headed into town so as to weather the coming storms in more substantial structures.

  A hot wind began blowing out of the east and those with experience in such weather knew that this was feeding even more energy into the rapidly approaching storm front. Even now a huge portion of the western sky was stained as black as coal and the remainder of the heavens had taken on a greenish hue. In every camp nerves began to fray. In short order showers began to fall; hot raindrops as big as a man’s thumb began to splatter on canvas. Fire buckets were emptied over the few cooking fires that had been lit and everyone went to their tents and tied the doors tight behind them. Inside and dry, people drew out cold beer from hidden coolers and passed crockery jugs with their favored “nerve medicine”. In more than one tent small transistor radios were retrieved from bedrolls and tuned in to local stations. In even more prayers were being whispered.

  However, in the camp nearest the open field, and some distance from any other, something very different was occurring. Seven people, four women and three men, were taking turns feeding each other bites of bread baked that morning in a Dutch oven over their fire. When the circle was completed a pewter chalice was held by a woman as the largest of the men dipped a dagger into the wine while speaking in a soft, loving voice. As the man sheathed his blade the woman began the circle anew, blessing the man next to her, holding the cup to his lips for him to drink, and then giving him the cup to repeat the cycle with the woman next to him. On this went until the circle was complete. The last of the bread was gently set upon the ground and a prayer was offered as the last of the wine in the chalice was carefully poured over the bread. Their offering to the Mother now made, the group came close together and spoke quickly among themselves. Had anyone been looking it would have appeared like an odd take on a football huddle, and in a way it was.

  For sometime before the announcement of the looming bad weather had come, two of their number had foretold of the storms and they had warned all who would listen. None but their own camp mates had taken the warnings to heart though. So it was that their camp was nearly completely secured against the rain and wind when the official word had come. While the rest of the re-enactors were leaving or securing their camps these seven had had time for an afternoon bite and then had gone to help others in tying ropes and driving stakes before meeting back at their camp for the cakes and cup. All of this camp preparation was well and good against violent thunderstorms, but this group was now sure that there was more than just a threat of tornadoes. A tornado was a certainty.

As the heated rain began each of the seven went to his or her bedroll and retrieved a cloak and a staff. They wrapped themselves in their dark woolen cloaks, and watched the rain drive in widely spaced sheets across the broad Coosa River while they waited. The wait didn’t last long.

Seven sets of human eyes scanned the bruised skies and soon one lifted an arm and pointed to a lowering, roiling portion of the black cloud. Then the seven moved as one to the vertical twenty foot embankment over the river. The large man then walked around the others making a large circle around the group by dragging the copper-clad end of his hemlock heartwood staff in the sandy soil. His task completed, the shortest of the women, her waist length hair whipping in the wind, walked around the ring calling into the wind at the four cardinal points in Irish Gaelic and striking the ground with her oaken staff. When her circuit was completed the group formed an inverted V point at the now forming funnel cloud. The large man was at the point with his staff planted firmly in the ground before him and held in a two-handed grip. Behind him were two of the women, one on each leg of the formation. Then followed the other two men, and behind these the last two women.

With one voice the two women in the rear began to chant, their words blown away in the harsh wind that now changed both direction and temperature. Three times they chanted their chorus and as they finished the last verse they simultaneously planted their staves against their right foot and leaned them over to touch the shoulders of the men in front of them. Without event the least loss of tempo the men took up the chant and now four people sang to the winds.

A funnel cloud had fully formed now and writhed in the sky like some huge viper seeking the best place on its prey to sink its fangs…

Thrice the four cloaked figures sang their verses. Then, just as before, at the end of third verse the men planted their staves and angled them forward to touch the shoulders of the two women in front of them. Six voices clashed with the rising winds and waves of rain. Yet they sang, though they were battered by the rain.

As if some consciousness had made up its mind the funnel drew itself higher into the shy for the slightest moment, then struck the earth perhaps a mile away from the banks of the river and began to churn the earth and everything on it furrowing a path over a hundred yards wide and growing. The line of destruction charted its course due east – directly at the fort and the occupied canvas encampment.

Pea sized hail began to fall over the fort and the small city of history buffs. In many of the tents with radios the tornado warnings were heard and people began to shout to their neighbors about the impending disaster. Children began to cry and were joined by many of their parents. Other people began to laugh as some will do when faced with an insurmountable dilemma or life-threatening event. Faces began to appear at the door flaps of tents all through the camp. The people in the handful of tents in the corner where the field meets the river that dared to look out during the storm got not just a glimpse of the tornado, but of something far more inexplicable…

As the six voices completed their chant the last two women bent their staves forward to touch the shoulders of the big man in front. He, as the others before, picked up the chant adding his voice to the song. Despite the cold rain and stinging hail the seven were sweating heavily. All of their thoughts, all of their being was concentrated in the moment and on the roaring monster churning its way towards them. Nothing else mattered but their chant and the storm. Nothing else existed.

The twister was classic in its nature. Trees splintered or were torn from the earth roots and all. Fence lines and the tar & gravel pavement of the county roads it crossed were scoured from the land and the debris added to the grinding power of the wind itself as it approached the western banks of the river convergence. Nothing but the strongest of Man’s buildings had any chance against the might of such a tornado. The insignificant fabric homes in its path would be as snowflakes in a black blizzard very shortly.

Six times the group of seven had chanted their verses as the twister crossed the far bank. Those in the back of the formation had been chanting for some time now and with each verse they had given more of themselves to those before them, adding to their power. Those in turn added their essence to the spell and passed the power forward. Now the six on the wings of the formation were focusing all of this collected and magnified thought/will/power to the point man. He too added to the spell all of his will and experience as the chant continued. The verse itself was made to aim and magnify the energy of those that sang it out loud.

By the end of the eighth repeat of the chant the twister was well into the river. The water being drawn up so violently changed to spinning horror from brown/black to a dirty white froth churning ever closer. Thrice times thrice the group of seven had chanted their collective will to the angry skies. Now that the last verse was done and the twister dominated their vision they raised their voices as one and shouted as the big man at point raised his staff from the earth…


“Our will be done! So mote it be!”


…and a hemlock heartwood stave, shod in copper, struck the earth and shattered like glass in a white flash of energy.

To those that were watching the tornado from their camps the twister had reached mid-river when for some inexplicable reason it stopped all forward movement, reversed course, and began drawing up into the clouds as it reached the far bank. In moments it was gone.

Such an expenditure of energy left all of the seven weak and only barely able to walk. The leader was somewhat worse. The release of their combined will had left him with slight burns on both hands and temporarily blind from the flash. His staff now lay in splinters and the ornate copper ends were twisted and unrecognizable chunks of metal. As they helped one another back to the camp the short woman with the long hair held the big man’s hand. Looking at his flash-burned skin she said only, “Omar, we will never again risk such a thing. Interfering with the will of Nature should have killed us all.”

Easing down into a covered camp chair, ears still ringing Omar replied, “I hear you, Lady. Only slightly, but I hear you.”

To the few who saw both the twister and the seven people on the river bank it wasn’t just the storm that was inexplicable. What they had witnessed something that frightened them more that the storm. Most wrote it off as fools lucky to have survived a close lightning strike. One young man, however, was far more than merely frightened by what he had witnessed. James Dunkin was forever changed. When the tornado had hit the river with a roar he had been certain of his impending death and had found himself in a state of peace, assured that he would be with Jesus in Heaven within mere minutes. He had seen what happened very clearly and the open display of magic snapped something in his mind. Witches! They had to be witches. And they had stopped God’s righteous judgment from sending the sinners to Satan and from taking him to Glory.  A lifetime of fundamentalist dogma became like iron in his mind. At that moment he knew what his life was meant to be. He would learn more of these spawn of the devil and he would lead the crusade to sweep them from Gods green Earth once and for all!

People were beginning to come out of hiding to see what damage had been done in the tent city and to talk among themselves of their lucky day. James pulled on his wide brimmed hat and walked out towards the fort’s Vendors Row as the evening sun broke through and shone down through dripping green leaves. Looking back to the lonely camp near the river bank he said to no one in particular, “Exodus 22:18, Thou shall not suffer a witch to live.”