Leylani Das //D5// cb done

Rule number one.

Never show anyone the grimoire.

For it is the most sacred of parchments. Holding onto our practices with the most truthful of ink. A written law that has been passed down from coven leader to coven leader. Their names scratched into wood, preserving a life force much bigger than themselves. A woman chosen to serve the group, to put herself first. The voice of the group as we chanted in the honor of our hearth. The place we called our home.

Oh sacred land, Mother Earth divine

Glowing beneath the moon’s soft light

In every leaf of every tree

We honor you in our hallowed rite

Oh sacred land we sing for thee

Your presence whispers, setting us free.

Rule number two.

We are an extension of the land.

Whilst the district has become polluted, there has been talk amongst the elders. A representative from each family, my mother and sister sat on the council. There was talk of leaving, returning to the woods. The pollution would kill us all eventually, rob us of what we worked hard to protect. For before each meal we thanked the nature for what they would offer us, in return we offered the land our protections. What was once an easy task, turned into more and more a political balancing act. Mother finding every form we could fill out to stop them from taking what was rightfully ours.

Rule number three.

Contact to those outside the coven should remain minimal.

Mom had done her best to keep me out of school, afraid of the exposure to those different than us. She was just as afraid of the unknown as they were. I had befriended a girl the day the peacekeepers came knocking, ripping me out of my mothers’ arms as they took me to school. I had sat down next to Maggie, her essence felt conflicting. Her beliefs so carefully crafted such as mine. I had brought her the grimoire the next day. My heart imploring me to reach out, teach her the ways of the land.


Rule number three only became rule number three after I had broken rule number one. My intentions were weighed against my crime in an audience with the elders. Chalked down to a little girl spirited with the blessings of the land. I was never to speak again, my tongue confided to a pen. Writing in the name of the nymphs.

Rule number four. My very own rule.

The elders can not tell me what to do. They will not rob me of my voice.