Ole' Abigail Tinglsey set about to make up a mess of greens, only they were not the usual fare; they were greens of herbs, for making poultices; brownish brackens for clearing lungs of the foul spirits; and the bright red wine of St. john's wort to soothe the tired and bruised among those whom she knew were on their way.

She hummed and cackled as she went about her brewing, thinking of the sillyness most people thought of her. Newt's toes and dragon wings, virgin babies' hearts, and heads of snakes, she'd never even seen such things, let alone use them. But, it suited her fancy for solitude to let them think she was that kind of witch. The people who mattered knew bettr. She brushed back her stark white hair, her high cheekbones glinting in the firelight, steam moisture wetting her brow.

Last night, the day after the girl Janey, had been by, wuthluss gerl thet she was, Granny Abigail had sat up all night, watching the moon. She had dragged her table over by the wondow. Once in the night, she very carefully unwrapped her scrying mirror, a polished piece of some rare stone, no more that 6 inches across, from the folds of her softest, black cloth. The lone candle she'd lit on the table cast faint and feeble shadows behind her, but when it was close and reflected on the scrying mirror, it flared up proudly, emitting a brilliantly golden glow, stretching to do its part.

She drew one long bony finger from beneath the lace edge of a too long sleeve, her right index finger, and began to run it round and round the edge of the seer's plate, just slightly concave in the center; one could see faint rings running to its center. If one were to know, this would be what marked it as a precious and not easily found specimen of rainbow obsidian. It was given her by a great shaman from the tribe which had captured and raised her as a child. She had earned her freedom and the witching stone as they recogised her great gift.

Closing her milky white eyes, as though to see even more clearly with her mind's eye, her finger slowed and finally stopped at one edge. A frown creased her brow as she concentrated in seeing clearly. Suddenly, she saw the one they called Hartung, a whitehide version of "Hard Tongue" as the People knew him, the stealer of souls! She watched in dread as he snuck up and painted his symbol on the forehead of the sleeping man. He had a wickedness of icy cold and she knew his only concern was death and destruction, usually in the most painful and long-drawn out manner for all involved.

As she watched him leave the innocents, unware even of his visit, she incribed symbols of her own in the air, lightening flashing from the tips of her fingers, lingering like sparklers in their wake. "Yes'm, o' Great One, we gots a bad one on our hands this time, we's gots to stop him now. Oh, Great One, give me strength and guidance, show me what this old fool of a woman can do to deliver your lambs from the slaughter." She prayed in a mishmash of what she remembered from early childhod before capture and what she'd learned in her heart from the Indians who'd adopted her.

Carefully, running her hand in the other direction on the mirror, she negated all which had come through, cleaned the mirror by dipping it in salt in a basin beside her, then passing it through the flame. She then put it away, again folded very carefully in the old cloth, and tucked away into one of her myriads of pockets among the layers of petticoats, skirts, and aprons covering her wizened body.

She settled back in her chair, drew the candle slightly closer, lit a stick of homemade incense which instantly permeated the air with calm sage, sweet cedar, and tall grass, traded from some travellers from far West. Stilling herself, taking long deep breaths and blowing them out slowly, she felt for the cat, anchored in her lap. Feeling all was well and truly protected, she slipped off her old body, as if an old comfy blanket and travelled across her piney woods, to among the cyprus and swamps now, their knees sticking up out of the water. There she found the band she was looking for and the young one she could entice. "O, little one, heed me well, I speak for the Great One who wishes your service. There are those with great hunger, in great danger. You must feed them, bring them to me. Washemeneto! Do that which is good in the eyes of the Great Spirit!"

With that, Abigail found herself home, in the old comfort of four limbs, chest, aching shoulders and head and a cat that now seemed to weight 20 pounds, having acted well as the grounding force for her travelling. She snuffed the candle, her chin fell to her chest, and, exhausted she slept.