The Curse of Mnemosyne

by Amy Stilgenbauer

The Curse of Mnemosyne

  Amy Stilgenbauer

  Copyright © 2015 Amy Stilgenbauer

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Image: "St. Sebastian" by Andrea Mantegna. This work is in the public domain in the United States, and those countries with a copyright term of life of the author plus 100 years or less. This work has been identified as being free of known restrictions under copyright law, including all related and neighboring rights.

  Acknowledgements: Many thanks to my dear friends Jillian and Reno for all their support.

  “In imagination she sailed over storied seas that wash the distant shining shores of "faëry lands forlorn," where lost Atlantis and Elysium lie, with the evening star for pilot, to the land of Heart's Desire. And she was richer in those dreams than in realities; for things seen pass away, but the things that are unseen are eternal.” - L.M. Montgomery, Anne of the Island

  1.

  I fell before I knew what happened.

  I still don’t know what happened.

  I saw Jack. He was there. Though, he couldn’t have been there. Jack is gone forever. He gave Jaclyn his iron to protect her, but now he’s gone and so is she. I never thought I’d see him again. But, there he was. I wanted to run into his arms like I hadn’t in years. I always decide just a little too late.

  Before I could get to him, I fell...was falling...had been falling? I don’t know which is right. It feels like I’ve been falling all my life.

  I see my life rushing by in little snippets; not even in the right order, just flying, flashing, appearing. I don’t even know if what I’m seeing is entirely true. I don’t quite remember right anymore.

  I don’t even remember why I’m falling.

  Is it Jack’s fault? My fault? That damn fate girl’s fault? Someone else’s fault? Someone unseen? Unknown?

  All I know is...

  I shouldn’t be here.

  This isn’t right.

  I don’t belong here.

  These things have already happened.

  I can’t change them.

  I can only watch.

  2.

  June 21, 1995. Paint Twp, Ohio.

  For Jaclyn’s fifth birthday, Cerise had organized a feast. She invited every Harvest witch she knew since she had been Jaclyn’s own age. Jaclyn clearly didn’t understand the importance of such an momentous occasion, but Cerise knew all too well how important it was to show her off as a good and proper Harvest witch, being welcomed into her powers on the traditional day and in the traditional way.

  Already rumors flew. Her mother tried to shield her from them, but her brother was frank enough. “I heard from one of my hunting buddies that they think Jaclyn’s gonna turn out to be a serial killer,” he said the night before when the Mooreland family had been decorating for the big day.

  “What a terrible thing to say!” Opaline shouted, but Cerise just shook her head.

  “People have said much worse, mother,” she replied, looking over at the quiet young girl, reading by the hearth. She knew any normal mother would be proud that their daughter was pouring over the adventures of Laura Ingalls at five years old, but Cerise couldn’t bring herself to feel that way. In fact the only emotion that welled up inside her at the sight of Jaclyn reading was fear.

  “She’s -your- daughter,” Opaline replied, an edge of fierceness in her voice that Cerise didn’t remember actually being there in reality. “You are one of the most powerful girls I have ever had the misfortune to have to train. Cocky, willful, and downright brilliant. It runs in the family, sweetheart, and Jaclyn will be just like you”

  “She’s also Jack’s daughter.”

  Opaline’s face darkened for a moment. Cerise didn’t quite know what she she was thinking. But then she waved a hand. “What do fathers matter?”

  “Excuse me!” Raymond protested.

  Both Opaline and Cerise laughed at this. “Sorry, Ray,” Cerise said. “But you’re outnumbered in this house.”

  He crossed his arms, pretending to pout, “The dog’s a boy!”

  “And neutered.”

  Laugh as she might, Cerise still found it hard to ignore the rumors that flew in her circles. To those who knew nothing about the magic in her background, most of the county, she was an unwed mother, a hussy, and a harlot who didn’t have the good sense to keep her legs closed. This was bad enough. She learned quickly to shy away from most of her community when the looks of scorn came her way. Still, she knew in her heart these rumours didn’t matter and whatever old-fashioned and judgemental barbs were hurled at her, they didn’t touch Jaclyn. The magical community knew more, and they were much, much worse. They knew who Jaclyn’s father was despite Cerise’s best efforts to hide that fact from them. They knew the child was half-shade and they had...-ideas- about what that could mean for her future.

  When Opaline had first explained the Winter will devour all prophecy, Cerise hadn’t thought much of it, but now, with half the Harvest community pointing fingers and whispering behind their hands about her daughter bringing about the end of the world, well, it was hard to think about anything else. This party had to change minds. Because if she could get them to stop whispering, maybe she could stop worrying about it every night in her dreams.

  As guests began arriving for the party, Cerise left her mother and brother to greet them and pulled Jaclyn off to the side. “Come with me, darling, I want to show you something.”

  Jaclyn gave a quiet and somber nod as she followed her mother out the door and to a tiny garden around back.

  In many ways, Jaclyn was at an advantage already based solely on the date of her birth. Cerise’s fifth birthday had been in March, and a terrible March at that, cold and bitter with still frozen ground despite claims that it was the first day of spring. Jaclyn’s fifth birthday got to be on the first day of summer instead. A fact that Cerise figured should be enough to quell the rumors; what “winter” was going to be born on the summer solstice? I obviously wasn’t. What she needed was Jaclyn to prove herself the best Harvest witch she could be. This meant going above and beyond the usually ritual. Traditionally, on their fifth birthday a Harvest witch was to demonstrate their magic by producing a simple flower. Superstition held that whichever flower they produced predicted their future. It was important that everything for Jaclyn went right. Luckily, the garden was already full of flowers, Jaclyn could lack magic entirely and Cerise could still probably claim she produced one.

  She chose a spot of ground near the garden, said the words her mother had taught her, and held out her hand parallel to the ground. As she did so, a sunflower sprouted, quickly growing to tower over the pair of them. Jaclyn stared in stunned silence.

  “Your turn,” Cerise prompted.

  Without a word, Jaclyn smiled up at her mother and imitated her. Cerise was impressed to see her magic had passed to the girl. The moment Jaclyn raised her hand a plant began to grow. It looked like a bell pepper for a moment and Cerise made a mental note to tell her mother that her daughter had produced a vegetable. That clearly had to mean she was the exact opposite of what they expected of her. Then the flowers opened. They weren’t white like a bell pepper. They were purple.

  Cerise gasped and without thinking grabbed Jaclyn from the ground and rushed back to the house. Later, she would point out the sunflower to the impressed gathering of Harvest witches and hope they didn’t notice the nearby belladonna.

  *

  After the party cleared out, Cerise pulled her mother aside. The vague dread that began when she first saw Jaclyn’s belladonna flower had increased throughout the party. She felt sick with it.

  “What is it, Cerise?” Opaline hissed at her daughter.

  She tried to lock her eyes on her mother’s, to s
peak to her without having to say what was truly bothering her, but she couldn’t quite get a hold on it. “Mama, I...I have to tell you something.”

  “Jaclyn didn’t make that sunflower,” Opaline replied. It wasn’t a question.

  Cerise started, wondering for a moment who else saw through her lies. “How did you know?”

  “I watched. No one else did, don’t you worry.”

  “So you saw...?” Cerise couldn’t bring herself to say out loud what had actually occurred in the garden.

  “Jaclyn’s work is nothing to be ashamed of, Cerise. She’s a child. Not everyone can produce a field full of daffodils on their first try like you did.” Opaline shook her head, her eyes dark with a scorn Cerise couldn’t place.

  “But it’s poison!” She practically shouted back. Regret filled her instantly; then she dropped her voice. “With what everyone is saying about her....Mama, it’s not a good sign.”

  Opaline’s brows knitted together, giving her a puzzled look. “Poison? Cerise what are you talking about?”

  She cast a glance around making sure that Raymond and Jaclyn were occupied, then dropped her tone even further to a harsh, angry whisper.“The deadly nightshade your granddaughter grew in my garden.”

  Now Opaline looked even more confused. “Nightshade, Cerise?” She whispered, reaching out her hand in a reflex to check her daughter’s temperature. “What I saw was a sickly looking little dandelion. I would have noticed deadly nightshade... which... honestly... would also be quite impressive. If that were the case, I still wouldn’t be worried about it, honey...”

  Cerise frowned and took a step back from her mother. She knew what she saw and she had no idea why the practiced and talented Harvest witch that her mother happened to be was trying to pretend differently. “A dandelion?”

  Opaline nodded, but Cerise still couldn’t read her. She didn’t know if her mother was trying to protect her or if that was genuinely what she saw. She waited a few moments, watching her mother’s face for some sign, some clue, but none came. “I should really get back to the dishes,” Opaline said, dismissing herself.

  Still, Cerise watched. She watched and waited for a long while as an idea began to form in her mind. The only way to keep Jaclyn safe from her own people was to keep her from them entirely. From that day forward, Cerise vowed, Jaclyn would have nothing to do with Harvest magic.

  “Jaclyn, darling?” She called, not looking away from her mother in the kitchen. “Where’s my birthday girl?”

  Timid as ever, Jaclyn sidled up to her mother. “Yes, mama?” She asked, looking like her heart was about to burst from the effort of speaking. It broke Cerise’s own heart to see her so fearful.

  “I want to show you something...”

  “Are we going to make more flowers?” There was an excitement in voice, but Cerise tried her best to ignore it.

  “Not right now, faerie princess. I want to show you how to call Brownies...”

  3.

  October 31, 1979. Holmes County Fair, Ohio.

  Normally Cerise would curse snow on Halloween. She had always felt it too soon to be cold; too soon for such an end to autumn; too soon. This year, though, she didn’t mind.

  This year, a handsome young man held her arm in his as she walked through the crowds of people and vendors. This year, despite the chill, she somehow felt warm, like she just drank a whole quart hot apple cider. She couldn’t help, but be happy.

  “Jack!” she shouted, spying a vendor who had wisely traded their soda for hot cider and coffee.

  He laughed. “I’m not really thirsty, but if you want something.”

  “Are you embarrassed to drink in front of me?” Cerise teased, nudging him lightly with her elbow. “I thought only girls did that.”

  “No, it’s just...I don’t really...”

  Cerise peered at him, smirking at the discomfort that drew across his face. “Why, Jack, is there something you aren’t telling me?”

  His discomfort visibly grew and Cerise frowned to herself. She had intended to make a joke about his being a recovering caffiene addict, but now such a thing appeared to be in even poorer taste. “Jack...what is it?”

  He disconnected her arm from his and stepped away. Cerise felt the cold rush back to her. “Cherry,” he said, using her nickname. If he had hoped this would soften the blow, Cerise didn’t feel it. “This isn’t fair to you.”

  She tried not to pout, but the expression came unbidden. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I really like you...more than most girls...” He trailed off, eying the bundled groups of people that walked past. Cerise watched them as well, trying to understand what Jack might mean. They hadn’t known each other long, less than a month, but Cerise had felt something with him, a pull, a connection, that she didn’t feel with many people. She liked the way he carried himself, with the humble confidence of someone who had made mistakes in life, but wasn’t about to let that hold them back. It was how she saw herself as well. She even liked his ginger hair and crooked teeth, both things that had turned her off in others. There was just something about him. She didn’t want him to go, so she didn’t prompt him to speak further; she waited.

  Eventually, he continued, “you’re special, but...you’re a harvest girl. You need to meet yourself a nice little harvest boy and have harvest babies...”

  His words struck hard. The pout was gone. Instantly replaced by a scowl. “Who said anything about babies, -Jonathan-?” She asked, ice in her voice. “We have known each other for a month.”

  “A good month, don’t you think?”

  “Well, of course, but if you think for a second that I’m the kind of girl who gets married to someone she’s known a month. I’m only 19, Jack...”

  “And I’m five hundred and fifty two...give or take.”

  Cerise stared at him, uncomprehending. Five hundred and fifty two? Did he think she was a fool? After a long pause all she could say was, “Well, you look good for your age.”

  “Cherry,” he begged. “I’m being serious.”

  She stepped back, shaking her head as she looked him over. “What, you trying to tell me you’re a vampire or something? I may be a witch, but I’m not an idiot. There’s no such thing.”

  “I’m not a vampire.” His expression was grim; his lips in a tight line as though speaking pained him.

  “Good,” Cerise replied, trying to smirk, but knowing full well that her expression looked more annoyed than anything. “Now that we’ve cleared that up...”

  “I’m what you would call a ghost...a shade...a shadow...”

  “You seem pretty solid to me.” Cerise wasn’t having it. The look on Jack’s face had a seriousness about it, but she couldn’t bring herself to believe him. There was no logic in it; nothing but complete and utter nonsense. Magic may have been part of her life since day one, but there were other things she knew to be false. Ghosts weren’t real. Vampires weren’t real. People didn’t live to be five hundred and fifty two. This whole thing was nonsense.

  “I like you Cerise, but I have to leave after tonight. I only get October. I can come back...next year...if you want me...if you’ll have me...”

  Cerise eyed him with a suspicious hesitation. “If this is some fancy way of telling me that you’re married...”

  “I’m not married!” People were starting to turn and look, hearing his raised voice. “Look, have you never heard of the Underland?”

  Now, Cerise’s frown deepened, but this time it wasn’t because of Jack’s ridiculous claims; it was because she -had- heard of the Underland and none of it was good. “The closest thing you can actually get to vampires,” she muttered. “They’ll suck the life right out of the world if we let them.”

  Jack sighed with dramatic relief. “I -knew- there was a way to get through to you...”

  “So you’re one of them then?” Cerise backed even further away and crossed her arms protectively across her chest, her expression hardening. “What? Were you supposed to seduce
me or whatever? Did you have a pang of conscious?”

  “God, Cherry, have you always been so...cynical?”

  “Don’t call me Cherry when we’re having a serious discussion.”

  Cerise watched him, looking for some hint of true emotion on his face. She had never been gifted with her mother’s talent for reading people and their true motives, nor her brother’s gut feelings when something bad was about to happen, so all she saw was a handsome man with sad longing in his eyes. It was too much like what she wanted to see to be true; this she knew. “Jack...”

  “You don’t have to decide now. I’ll be back next year. October first. If you waited, you waited. If you didn’t, you didn’t. No hard feelings either way.”

  “Of course,” Cerise answered. She watched, uncertain and wishing she had something more concrete to go on, as he turned and walked through the crowd alone.

  When he had finally disappeared, she took a deep breath and walked to the cider vendor.

  “You all right?” asked the bedraggled looking man in overalls.

  All Cerise could bring herself to do was nod.

  4.

  January 26, 1978. Paint Twp, Ohio.

  The snow outside the living room window had piled up to the top of the sheep fence and was still barrelling down. Cerise could scarcely see the barn. She did not expect that she would be going to school that day.

  She pressed her nose against the window, trying to smell the cold. Raymond often argued that cold had no smell, but Cerise knew that on this matter, and many others, he was wrong. Cold smelled crisp, like tart apples and freshly starched linens, but there was also a hint of the sinister: like the metallic sting of brass and the earthy musk of riverbed pebbles. Cerise knew many smells, but none were so pristine and terrifying as cold. She took a deep breath, but could only smell the glass. It didn’t hold quite the same appeal.

  Disappointed, she turned from the window and went over to the bookcase by the hearth. More than anything, she wanted to light a fire. Not so much because the farmhouse was cold, but mainly for atmosphere. The crackling sounds and spicy smells of burning wood made her feel like a pioneer woman, or alternatively a Victorian gentlelady instead of what she truly was: a high school senior in the late 1970s, just like every other high school senior in the late 1970s. Well, except for one thing.