by Coralie Moss
I grabbed for his wrist as he went to walk away and steered him to stand at my side. “This is all so new,” I whispered. “I don’t want to miss a thing.”
He wiggled out of my grasp and slid his fingers up the back of my skull, tangling them in my hair. Bringing his mouth against my ear, he whispered back, “I like to watch you learn, Calliope.” Giving me a couple inches’ worth of distance, he added, “And touching you grounds me. Being here is unsettling.”
The truth of his words showed itself on his face. He’d passed through this place in pursuit of the Apple Witch.
I interlaced my fingers through his. I understood the driving need to feel rooted. “Can you sense her?” I asked, keeping my voice as low as I could. “Because I can’t. Not here, not under the disguise the three of you created. I can’t sense anything.”
“The fortified wards are meant to keep her out,” he explained. “Her and others who would seek access to this place.”
Maritza ducked under the lintel of the doorway. “We have a problem,” she said. “We cannot perform the Ritual of Conjuration outside of the mound.” She crossed her arms under her breasts, rolled her shoulders, and cracked her neck to each side. “And if someone could please fetch the living hidden folk we left at the house, we can get this exhumation started.”
“Tanner, River.” Wes turned to leave then asked Maritza if there was anything else she could think of that would be useful.
“Ask those boys what the hidden folk enjoy eating. And drinking. The more treats they are plied with, the more enticements we provide, the longer they will stay. And the more they’ll say.”
Wes nodded and took off, Tanner and River loping beside him. I declined the urge to watch my druid’s departing backside and turned my attention to the witches and to Maritza. “Is there anything we can do while we wait?”
“Belle brought marigolds. Pull off the petals and gather them into…” Her gaze swept the area. “Find something to hold the petals until we are ready to go inside.”
I avoided looking at the wrapped heads as I went to my knees next to Belle and gathered a cluster of marigolds. Their pungent smell was used by organic gardeners to ward off insects. Equating the cheery, orangey-yellow flowers with ceremonies for the dead was new. I added that note to the growing archive on my cellphone, returned to separating petals from the receptacle, and considered adding botanical illustrations to my grimoire.
Which I didn’t yet have, but I would. Even if coming into possession of a grimoire of my own meant portaling to the northernmost section of British Columbia. Or driving. Driving was a mode of transportation I knew I could handle.
Completing Maritza’s task took us as long as it took the trio of druids to return to the farmhouse, gather food and drink, bundle Hyslop and Peasgood into a slatted cart, and hightail it back. If the flush to their cheeks was an indication, they’d run the entire way.
Once Wes lowered the cart’s extended handles to the ground, the two brothers swung their legs to either side and stood, wobbling. They refused offers of assistance and hefted small bags that clanked with the sound of glass hitting glass.
“We brought mead,” Hyslop said, “and some of Gramp’s home-brewed beer. Hidden folk love anything fermented, and the hops were grown here on the farm.”
Rose and Belle stood. “Can you roll that over here please? We can load the troughs into the cart and bring everything in with us at once.”
“I was going to suggest that, Rose.” Maritza’s voice arrowed out from inside the burial mound and landed in the middle of our assembly of Magicals.
River winked at Rose, brought the cart closer, and we followed him through the doorway.
Chapter 8
I held my breath as my leg swung over the threshold, landing my foot in the hushed and hallowed place where certain Magicals buried their dead. The ceiling rose far higher than I would have guessed from the outside. After the first steps, a gentle slope led downward. My thigh muscles bunched in anticipation of managing the incline without slipping.
Coffin-shaped mounds of varying sizes and heights filled the space in an ordered way, but none stood out for being noticeably larger or smaller than the others. Light filtered in via fat, square beams from four openings in the ceiling. Kaz waved from a spot in the middle and informed the group he was fairly certain the mounds closest to where he was standing were the oldest.
“How can you tell?” I asked, in awe of what being inside was doing to my peripheral awareness. This was a far different experience than the tunnels under the apple trees. There, I scuttled around on my hands and knees because the space was so confining. Here, the urge to go to the ground had more to do with an overwhelming urge to worship.
“A placing on of the hands, Calliope,” he said. “I invite you to try once we’ve completed this task. These two mounds,” he continued, pointing beyond the beam of light, “are where Clifford buried the bodies. Maritza, how would you like to proceed?”
“First, I prepare the ritual area.”
She strode forward, a leggy bird adorned in colorful plumage. Waving her hands like an orchestra conductor, she focused on one section at a time, leaning forward, drawing back, and swaying side to side, until it was clear she was working with the pile of particles to create a circle on the ground about twelve feet across. During the circle-making she stopped and started, marking open spaces at the cardinal directions.
“If everyone would gather around the outside of the circle and have your items at the ready. You will enter through the door to the east as per my instruction.” She pointed to the correct opening. “Kazimir, if you and the other druids would uncover the bodies?”
Maritza reached into her bag and extracted a small clay brazier and a pouch. She dropped coal in the squat, black pot, lit a match, and blew the briquettes into lighting. Another pouch held chunks of a different substance, one which glowed amber and gave off fragrant smoke once placed the live coals.
“Copalli,” she said, “from Mexico. Belle, if you would bring in the marigold petals and sprinkle them on the ground as you follow me.”
The necromancer pinched two of the brazier’s legs and stood, careful not to tilt the pot. She blew on the coals and the copal, creating a trail of smoke behind her. Belle followed, scattering petals.
Maritza spoke next to the quartet of druids. “The bodies may be brought into the circle. Do not place the feet facing one of the open doors. We wouldn’t them wandering off.”
She smiled. Necromancer humor.
The four men brought in the bodies, placing them to either side of center, and followed Belle out the opening to the North.
Making hand movements in front of the pile of cloth that traveled from the house to the burial mounds, Maritza indicated her wish. The pieces assembled themselves over the headless bodies, covering them from the necks to the wrists and ankles. She then reached into her purse and withdrew a giant spool of ink black thread and an equally large needle.
The necromancer sat cross-legged on the ground, lowering herself with measured elegance at the heads of the two corpses. She joined the edges of each piece of fabric with her magically-enhanced needle until burial shrouds covered both bodies.
“Peasgood, Hyslop, come in through here please,” she said, “and bring with you the libations and offerings. Rose and Belle, when they have finished, you may bring in the heads.”
Peasgood and Hyslop paused before entering the circle.
Maritza gave them a moment to collect themselves before she waved them forward and continued her instructions. “Open the bottles of beer and mead, pour servings into the glasses, and place the bottles to the outside of the bodies. Whatever food you brought can go on these.”
She withdrew two squares of cloth, embroidered with brightly colored images of flora and fauna, from her purse. Shaking the squares open, she bade them float.
The air swelled with solemnity as the grandsons and the embroidered pieces followed her instructions. The squares fluttere
d to the ground. Peasgood and Hyslop placed the containers of Abi’s homemade cheeses and fruit preserves on top and removed the lids.
“Was there anything else you thought to bring that might assist with awakening the dead’s senses?” Maritza asked.
“We brought apples, ma’am.” Peasgood withdrew two apples from their bag and handed one to his brother. In unison, they rubbed the fruit against their shirts until the skins developed a pinkish-yellow sheen then set the apples beside the cheeses.
“Rose. Belle. Bring in the heads.”
The witches lifted the heads from the troughs and proceeded to the opening. They entered and circled clockwise until they came to Maritza. She took the first head from Belle, lifted the edge of the towel, and appraised the bodies laid before her.
“I think you belong to…” She went into a high crouch, waved the head over its presumed lower half, and was rewarded with movement through the cadaver’s chest and fingers. “Right.” She put the head in place, left the face covered, and turned her torso to reach for the other head. “Rose?”
When both heads were in place, Maritza again made herself comfortable on the pounded dirt and raised her hands, palms down, above the covered faces. Her threaded needle floated to her hand for the briefest touch then dove downward, into the throat area of the head and the stub of a neck on the torsos. Following the movements of Maritza’s hand, the needle rose and fell in a steady rhythm until the head was reattached. The necromancer performed the same series of movements over the second head.
She unstopped the vial she showed me earlier, opened her mouth, and sprinkled the contents over her tongue. She pressed her lips together, dropped her chin toward her chest, and spit the dirt over the corpses.
“I have sacrificed a piece of my birth so that the two of you may once again wake.” Cleaning off her tongue with another napkin, she glanced over her shoulder in River’s direction. “Did we ever get their names?”
“Sweetbough. And Bellflower.”
As she repeated the two names, the bodies under Maritza’s hand-stitched shroud stirred. She lifted the closest edge of one shroud then the other, every movement studied, measured, and slow.
“Welcome,” she said. “Our time here is short and begging your indulgence, there are people here would ask about the manner of your deaths.”
Lips came unstuck. Whispers tumbled upwards and dissipated.
Maritza bent over, turned her ear toward their mouths, and listened. “Peasgood. Hyslop. Your brethren would speak with you.”
She came to her knees as the men re-entered the circle. They helped her to stand and took her place, one at the head of each hidden folk.
I walked to the opening at the East, my cell phone in my hand, thinking I would record whatever was said, if allowed. Cliff had warned me that taking photographs of the mounds would result in blank images. I hoped the same wasn’t true for the words of the dead, until the foursome’s indecipherable whispers had me abandon my idea.
When I checked my phone, close to fifteen minutes had gone by from the time the heads asked to speak to the living. I darted a glance at Maritza then at Tanner and the other druids and witches ringing the outer circle. Their attention was completely absorbed by the tableaux in front of us.
Maritza’s low whisper reached my ear. “There are things that must be spoken, knowledge that may only be passed from one hidden folk to another. The dead will speak for as long as they have things to say. That is the price we pay for their cooperation.”
I was beginning to feel antsy for something tangible to happen. I was also feeling the strain of the past twenty-four hours. It had to be at least dinner time, and when I peeked at my phone again, thinking I could text Rowan for a check-in, I had no reception. And the time read another twenty minutes had passed, and still Hyslop and Peasgood were hunched over the corpses and still we stood.
A wave of exhaustion swirled through my muscles, destabilizing my joints. From my ankles up, hazy, moss-colored winged insects invited me to collapse on the grass carpeting the rows between the earthen coffins and curl up for a nap. Inside the mound, the air verged on steamy, and the temperature was rising. I closed my eyes. Tried pinching the skin on the inside of my wrist. I shuffled three steps back, urged on by the little wings, then took three or four steps more, until I was on the grass and could lie down without getting dirty.
I was tired of being dirty.
I was tired of wearing stiff pants, sports bras, and clunky work boots.
From my horizontal position, all I could see was a forest of feet and shoes, legs and pants, skirts and ankles ringing the two living hidden folks and their two dead brethren. I tucked my knees toward my belly and my hands under the side of my face, and closed my eyes. With but a minute or five to rest, I would be good.
* * *
Kelp, salty, slippery, and cool, slid across my cheek. The feathery end trailed over my jaw and tickled my neck. I batted it away and dove deeper into the salty depths in an effort to elude whatever was trying to get my attention. Or I tried to swim away until I realized I was lying on a smooth, wide rock left damp by a retreating tide. My eyelids refused to open, but scents and sounds told me the ocean was near. The whoosh of gull wings, coupled with their cries, mingled with water gurgling, swirling, ebbing and flowing between the rocks around me.
Calliope, sweetheart.
I batted away another strip of seaweed.
Something wet unstuck my eyes. The tableaux in front of me had not changed. Living bodies ringed dead bodies. The trail of drool out the corner of my mouth let me know I’d napped. A quick look at my phone and verified almost thirty minutes had passed since I’d first closed my eyes. I stayed curled into myself, listened to my breath, and made another attempt to reach into the ground directly below my body.
My inquiry was met with the same silence I found at the demarcation line between the Pearmains’ orchards and this sacred site. The druids would know why this was. I hoped they could explain it, that it wasn’t some secret they had to keep on pain of—
“Calliope?” Rose’s pointed whisper brought me to sitting.
Those who were standing twisted and turned, I assumed because they were looking for me.
“Here,” I said, keeping my voice soft. “On the grass.” I flicked the flashlight app on my phone and waved. Surely they could see the beam through the misty green-gray light infusing the air.
Getting to my hands and knees and then to standing was an odd process of unsticking myself from where I had lain. One entire side of my body, my pants, shirt, and even my hair was damp—no, wet—and I smelled like a creature that had risen from the sea rather than a witch who had sweated a bit while napping in a patch of grass. The shape of my position was clearly embossed below me, the green darker and crushed.
I poked with one finger then my palm. Spongey. Water filled the imprint left by my hand.
“Calliope?” Rose’s voice held twin threads of urgency and annoyance. I was never going to be her star pupil.
“Coming.”
When I reclaimed the spot I had abandoned, Wes sniffed at my hair and clothes and pivoted to see where I had been. I pointed, the outline of my body still visible.
“You smell like the in-between,” he whispered.
I ducked my nose toward my armpit and sniffed. If the in-between was a place where dreams shone vivid then yes, I did smell like the in-between. Everything my senses catalogued while I napped was as real as the tableaux in front of me. My mother’s voice as clear as Wes’s whisper. I clutched at my shirt and squeezed until my fingers were wet, unsure how to reconcile the smell of the ocean and memories of my mother, with this place where the dead lay all around.
Maritza glared at Wes and me. At a signal I did not notice, she waved her hand in a languid S-shape. Her needle rose, a black thread looped through its eye. Stirring the air in front of her as though standing at a massive pot, she directed the needle and thread outside our circle. The magic-infused objects went around and
around, and every time they skimmed the backs of my legs, I shimmied forward a bit more. The others did too, until we were all mashed together, the four hidden folks at our shins.
“Stop.” Maritza’s voice rang with authority. Her needle hovered in the air. And the dead opened their eyes. “Bellflower. Sweetbough. What have you to tell us, now that you have spoken with your kin?”
“Fae. One man. Three women.” One by one, words drifted from their open mouths like mist over an embankment. I smelled earthworms and freezer burn on the dead men’s breath.
Tanner crouched and rested one knee on the ground. “Where did they find you?”
“The tunnels.” Both gave the dead’s version of a protracted exhalation. Movement under the shrouds made it seem they were fumbling at the threads keeping their body parts together. “Collars. Choke. Pain. Death.”
Peasgood and Hyslop linked elbows and set their free hands over the dead men’s hearts. Peasgood’s eyes filled with tears as he looked up at Maritza. “Please don’t make them go through this again,” he said. “Please.”
“We need names, my dear,” she answered, gentling her tone, “so that those who brought death to this sacred place will be revealed.” Adding a dose of palliative lightness to her voice, she said, “Bellflower. Sweetbough. Do you have names to share with us?”
The skin of the dead grew paler as every last bit of color coaxed into their cheeks by the raising ritual leaked away.
“Bellflower. Sweetbough. Do you have names?” Maritza repeated, her commanding back on line.
“Little darts,” they said, almost in unison, “little darts. So, so sharp.”
Chapter 9
At the third recitation of “little darts,” whatever spell had animated the two bodies was exhausted through one final, foggy exhale. Peasgood’s and Hyslop’s fingers curled and clenched at the shroud. We all bowed our heads and experienced the finality of Sweetbough and Bellflower’s last breath.
