Goheen Witch: Books 1-7


3.00 · 1 ratings · Published: Jun 24th, 2014 {{ book.ratingTitle }}
Goheen Witch
A dark, sci-fi fantasy
copyright © 2014 Trisha Miller, London, England

All seven Books of the Goheen Witch Series

from Book 1 - The Silence of the Void

Oh she was dark, dark, though her face,
Full fairer than does autumn show,
And she, the moonlight in that dark,
Like silence after winter snow.

Oh she was faerie, and her voice,
Sang whispering magic in a flood,
And when she sang she’d melt my heart,
And turn dull stone to flesh and blood.

She sat friendless and alone in the black void, in the pale-blue, silk regalia of the Elohin Navigator Guild. Her dyed ash-blonde hair fell carelessly over a face, both beautiful and serious, with a gravity too old for her nineteen years. The ship’s clock chimed the hour, but time has no meaning in the void. A row of green lights crawled across the ships console, as the computer checked each component of the ship for battle damage, noting that all the nukes had slid from their rails long before and its point of origin boiled into clouds of incandescent gas. The computer religiously deleted their return way point from its list of habitable planets and calculated that 1000 years of cruising with the crew held in stasis might yield some faint chance of finding another habitable world. The pilot, already in stasis, lay frozen beside her, but the navigator sat apart from him; possessed with an irrational desire to express some token of her life, before consigning herself to an uncertain oblivion. She folded the laptop and drew a quill pen from her bag. Placing several sheets of parchment on the inverted laptop, she dipped the oblique nib of her pen in black ink and began to carve the history of her fate, in the ornate, curved script of the old High Kingdom.
“I doubt anyone will ever read this. I was called Taymar: after a river in the old kingdom. I was born in the year 970, of the twenty-fifth millennium, in the third quadrant of the Dansai Constellation. My mother was Goheen, but children of the Goheen rarely have the gift, so, as is the custom, I was brought up in the world of men.
I have always known I was different: as soon as I started school the other children mobbed me like starlings. I stood in the playground, feeling surprised and hurt: I had hoped to find new friends and wondered what I might have done to deserve such intolerance. The starlings sensed an easy victim and gathered around me. I remember the ache of loneliness, the autumn leaves blowing in the brick corners, spiraling up into a pale-blue, autumn sky, the little sparrows darting in flocks, out over the grey tarmac. The children began chanting “Goheen witch, Goheen bitch.” Some of the bolder ones approached me, prodding with their fingers. I felt my anger rising. It grew inside me, filling me, until all my being was one cold, dark rage. I turned and releasing it in a long, discordant, silent scream. The children froze, then scattered, like chicks beneath a hawk.
A school teacher bore down on me. I felt her coarse, leathery hand, dragging me across the playground, up the worn stone steps, and down a long, empty corridor. “Sit,” she commanded, lifting me up onto a tall, wooden chair. I had often been told that, if I was bad, the dark lady would come and take me away. I sat all alone, trying not to think of it, singing a half-remembered song.”

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