Magic Remembered

by Coralie Moss

  “Cliff! Abi…?”

  A filmy silence settled over my shoulders, flowed down my body, and pooled over the ground. No insects, bird calls, or rustling leaves interrupted the leaden quiet. I sucked in a breath and peered into the shadows between the trees to my right and to my left. Nothing moved, even the breeze held its breath.

  Anchoring my boot-clad feet, I raised my hands, fingers spread and palms facing out, and tested the strength of the salt circle’s magical charge. If it was active—like an electrical wire—I’d feel a resounding zap if I got too close.

  Nothing.

  No vibration, no sensation of skin meeting invisible membrane, no static, no…nothing. Stepping further onto the Pearmain’s property, I crouched, brushing my fingertips over the salt’s pearly-white crystals before bringing a few to the tip of my tongue.

  A pungent darkness rolled over my taste buds and coated my nostrils, a sensation akin to swallowing a surprise mouthful of seawater. For a moment, my shoulder-length hair flowed away from my body like kelp from an underwater rock, and the light that penetrated my eyelids filtered a murky emerald green.

  Mama.

  I swayed in place, spitting the dirt and undissolved crystals off my tongue. I knew this salt; it was produced locally, from seawater pulled out of the deep trench off the coast of British Columbia. But why it called forth memories of my mother and the Atlantic…

  I left that for another time.

  Straightening, I brushed my fingers over my pants and headed away from the circle and the gate. When I last walked this property earlier in the spring, the grass was newly trimmed and the fruit trees were covered in delicate, pale pink blossoms. But in the heat and sharp yellow sunlight of high noon, the place appeared deserted. I pulled out my cell phone, brought up the Pearmain’s phone number, and waited for theirs to ring.

  In the distance, long, insistent peals from a landline pierced the stillness. Rounding the final curve in the road, I stopped and gaped, the cell phone forgotten in my hand.

  Clifford Pearmain sat upright in a once-red rocking chair on the farmhouse’s wrap-around porch. Abigail sat in another, her hands resting on a faded, flower-print apron. Both stared forward, rocking slowly in time with an invisible force. Abigail’s feet left the porch every time the front of her chair lifted and settled softly on the boards when she pitched forward.

  Competing telephone rings snapped my attention off the zombie-like couple. I thumbed the red circle on my phone and ended the call, stopping the other phone in the middle of a trill. The rockers continued their syncopated rhythm. Beside me, grasshoppers clung to chest-high stalks of Sea Holly thistle and kept their silence.

  I pocketed my phone and crouched again. Knees and palms to the ground, I spread my fingers and waited. The soil was dense underneath its warm, powdery surface. I took a slow breath, exhaled in a stream through pursed lips, and pressed down, reaching toward the house and the gate, the woods and the orchard.

  Earthworms slumbered. Tree roots remained mute to my probing.

  The quiet underneath my waiting palms connected with a dull pang feeling its way blindly from the vicinity of my heart. Once again, I would be forced to admit my magical skills were functioning below par, call it a day, and count on local law enforcement to solve whatever mystery I’d stumbled onto.

  Chapter 2

  I stood, made a fuss of brushing off my hands to give my urge to mourn a moment to ease, and palmed my wand before heading toward the porch. Scanning Clifford’s face and chest for signs of life, I stopped beside his rocking chair and placed a hand on his shoulder. A short-sleeved, tattersall plaid shirt draped over the protruding bones.

  Closing my eyes again, I sensed my way through the threadbare cloth to the ropey muscles of his bare upper arms. I could do this; Cliff was connected to his land through his years of stewardship and the dirt clinging to his boots, and at the very least, I was adept at reading dirt.

  I waited. The grasshoppers remained silent.

  A pulse rose—a heavy, viscous bubble—and bounced against my fingertips before it turned and made its way back toward the innermost chambers of the older man’s bones. I squeezed Cliff’s arm. Not a flinch or a quiver. Whatever held him mute was heavily cloaked.

  I gave Abigail a quick glance and stroked the old woman’s gnarled fingers and wrist. More of the same lethargic slumber. A momentary breeze lifted wavy strands of silver hair off her cheek and settled them on yellowed skin sagging with the weight of her seventy-plus years.

  Catatonia.

  Once, I could read my aunt’s basic spell books, and before I understood that waving a wand around had very real consequences, I practiced magic on our barn cats. As soon as my aunt de-spelled the catatonic felines, the book disappeared. And I never saw that wand again.

  Shaking off the memory, I rechecked Cliff and Abi’s pulses. Satisfied they were alive and hopeful they would remain so, I opened the screen door and stepped into the farmhouse’s dark interior. In the sitting room—preserved like a museum display from the early twentieth century—dust motes twinkled in lazy spirals. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, my gaze was drawn to a carved couch littered with needlepoint pillows, all of them variations of dainty pink and white blossoms on black backgrounds. A grouping of photographs was displayed on the wall behind the couch’s curved back.

  Horsehair stuffing crackled as I kneeled gingerly on the cushions and lifted the first frame off its nail. The glass front needed cleaning; the back was dusty but unremarkable. Tiny brass tacks around the edges looked undisturbed, probably since the frame’s initial assembly. Plucking a tissue from a box covered in more needlepoint roses, I wiped the glass.

  The image underneath revealed younger versions of Clifford and Abigail seated stiffly on the elegant settee with three young men arrayed behind them and everyone dressed in finer clothes than farming required. I found nothing unusual in their semi-blurred features before returning my attention to the frame.

  Like others arrayed across the wall, this one was hand-carved. And old. Probably a family heirloom.

  I squinted, holding it farther from my face. A repeated decorative element of curving lines turned into roots and branches, with tiny, carved apples and pears dotting the branches. On closer look, four faces emerged, one near each corner, each graced with an elongated nose, slightly pointed ears, and hair that intertwined with the tree.

  I scanned the wall. All the frames in the grouping over the couch were carved in a similar fashion. Rehanging the one in my hands, I stepped into the middle of the room and listened.

  High-noon cloaked the house with a blanket of heat and kept the grasshoppers on mute. The creak of a floorboard as I made my way back to the hall startled me into joining the ambient stillness.

  It’s an old house, Calliope.

  Blowing out a short breath, I squeezed the duct-taped handle of my wand, wished it was a knife—and that I knew how to use it in self-defense—and entered the kitchen. This room had a much more lived-in air, with dishes in the rack by the sink and a table set for two, complete with a vase of drooping flowers. I hesitated in front of the refrigerator; I really should have put on gloves before touching the picture frames.

  I pocketed my wand, extracted a pair of gloves from my bag, and tugged on the old appliance’s dented aluminum handle.

  The interior was neat and organized. I poked at the assortment of deli meats and cheeses, checked the purchase dates, and sniffed the bottle of cereal cream. Nothing was close to spoiling. Closing the refrigerator, I shifted my attention to the small pantry. Decorative dishware took up most of the shelves behind glass-fronted doors, and the usual dry goods were stacked behind the others. A chest freezer occupied the back wall. Its heavy lid fought against being opened until the suction finally gave way with a whoosh.

  A blast of cold air offered a welcome respite from the stale heat. Inside, two squarish wire baskets were half filled with paper-wrapped packages stamped with the local abattoir’s logo and labelled in blac
k marker. Below the baskets, bagged in plastic, were larger packages containing pork and beef roasts. I went to close the lid.

  Light coming over my shoulder highlighted a peculiar shadow in one of the clear bags. I separated the wire baskets, reached for the plastic, and gave a quick tug. I had to stifle a scream.

  A nose.

  I had grabbed a frozen nose, and it wasn’t a pig’s nose. Those were wrapped and clearly labeled in the basket at my elbow. I pressed the back of my free hand to my mouth and frantically scanned the shelf to my left for something to count. A full blown panic attack would not help me or the Pearmains.

  Twelve. Twelve neatly stacked dessert plates.

  When I was done counting and gagging, I reached forward, pinched the plastic, and turned the bag. A severed head, its pasty gray skin covered in a fine layer of frost, stared out, eyes unseeing.

  “What the…?” I jiggled the wire baskets farther apart, took out my phone, and snapped a few photos. Needing better light, I removed the bagged head and placed the frozen bundle on the floor. Carefully.

  Shit. I dropped the freezer lid and stepped into the kitchen, searching the countertops for something to cut the plastic. Poultry shears. Grabbing them by the handles, I kneeled on the faded black-and-white squares of linoleum and cut open the thick plastic bag. Flakes of ice tumbled over my knees. I brushed them away and pulled the crinkling material from the face.

  The long nose and pointed ears mimicked the features carved on the picture frames in the sitting room. I was able to take another photograph before the bile rose again.

  Stepping to the window at the far end of the narrow room, I opened the bottom sash and sucked in gulps of apple-scented air. Catatonic orchardists and a severed head were a couple steps above my pay grade. I was trained to investigate environmentally-based complaints and spats between organic and traditional farmers, not death.

  Not murder.

  I gripped the windowsill, sank into a crouch, and leaned my head against one arm. I ignored the buzzing from my phone. I’d have to get the Provincial authorities involved now, but—

  “I see you found the heads,” a man’s voice said.

  My heart damn near punched a hole in my chest. I pivoted on my knees and grabbed the shears I’d left on the floor. Angling my gaze upward, the sunshine slanting through the back door effectively blocked out the man’s facial features and endowed him with a temporary halo.

  “I’m Tanner Marechal,” the voice continued. “Ministry of Forests, Lands and Natural Resources. And who are you?”

  I palmed the shears and took a deep breath, standing quickly and pivoting so the sun wasn’t in my eyes. The better angle revealed a man clad in regulation-green pants and a light khaki shirt.

  “Calliope Jones,” I answered. “I work for the island’s Agricultural Commission.”

  Birds landing on the feeder outside the kitchen window made a sudden racket, pecking for seeds and dominance.

  I shifted my grip on my weapon as my heart beat twice for every second. “Could we exchange IDs or something? This is a crime scene and—”

  “The uniform and hat aren’t obvious enough?” One sable eyebrow raised, slow and deliberate.

  I held my ground. The man with the shoulder-length hair might be dressed as an employee of a province-wide government agency, but this was my island and my investigation and death was in a bag on the floor behind me.

  Plus, he was wearing flip-flops.

  “I don’t think we’ve ever met,” I said, straightening my spine and mimicking his wide, confident stance. “And in my official capacity as steward of the island’s orchards, I’d rather err on the side of offending you than ruffling local feathers.”

  Note to self: Make sure someone adds ‘She was brave’ to my tombstone.

  He didn’t shift his gaze off my face while he unbuttoned the breast pocket of his shirt and removed an embossed identification badge. I tried to make a mental sketch of his features, in case I had to describe him to the RCMP, but I didn’t get farther than topaz eyes and minty aftertaste.

  After placing the shears on the countertop and peeling off the gloves, I extended my hand, palm up. Tingles darting across my skin alerted me to the presence of magic.

  Ooh. My gaze went back and forth, from the man’s face and the crystalline clarity of his eyes to the shiny badge. I confirmed his name, memorized his employee number, and when I stroked the pad of my middle finger across the back of the metal, one of those tingles pulsed rapidly before piercing my skin.

  Ouch. I flipped the badge. A pentacle glowed green then started to fade. Today was my day for meeting other Magicals.

  “So. Natural Resources is hiring witches?” I asked.

  The agent’s eyes widened. He shook his head. “No, not intentionally. The pentacle tells me you’re a witch.”

  Oh. I had no idea government-issued IDs could be customized to detect magic.

  “And what are you?” I asked, ready to go tit-for-tat.

  “Druid.”

  Agent Marechal may have been the first druid I’d ever met, and I didn’t know what to say or if there was a specific protocol I was supposed to follow. I went with my most over-used ice-breaker. “What brings you to Salt Spring Island?”

  He tucked the badge in his pocket and buttoned the flap. “Over the past three months we’ve received multiple reports of disturbances in orchards all across the Gulf Islands and into the San Juans, as well as coastal areas of British Columbia and Washington State.” He pivoted and pointed at the Pearmains, still slowly rocking. “This is the third incidence I’ve come across of orchardists placed under the Catatonia spell.”

  “How are the others?” And why hadn’t I gotten even a whiff of information about problems with magic in the agricultural sector?

  “All were released successfully and have recovered without side effects. We’re working on tracing the spells’ origins, but not a single one of the victims remembers who put them under.”

  “And why did you come here?”

  “Because the Pearmains were accused in the same manner as the others of using non-organic farming practices.”

  “Were those accusations filed in person or anonymously?”

  “Anonymously.”

  Bingo. “Same here,” I said. “So why didn’t you contact my office?”

  “Because...” Tanner hesitated, brought his hands to his hips, and scuffed the floor with the toe of his flip flop. The birds continued to squawk and toss seed. “Because there’s nothing in my files about the GIAC having a witch on staff. And something was left at the second site.”

  “What kind of something?”

  He pointed to the bag at my feet. “A severed head. Like the two here.”

  I swallowed. I wasn’t aware a second head waited in the freezer. “I’d like to put this one back and get the RCMP’s Forensics team in here.”

  The agent tensed, looked out the window, and rubbed his jaw. “I’d like to propose a different tack. I have other druids and witches who work with me. I’d like to bring them on board and keep this—” he circled his shoulders to indicate the kitchen and beyond—“between us.”

  “Are you saying you’d like to lend your expertise to my investigation?”

  “I’m saying…” he huffed out. “Yes, Ms. Jones, I can put my resources at your disposal. In return, I would ask for quid pro quo. And that you not inform local, human authorities.”

  “Agreed.” I extended my arm, starting when he took my right hand in both of his. I half-expected a return of the tingling I’d felt when I swiped the back of his badge. Instead, my feet warmed in my boots, heat rising up my legs like bathwater. I jerked my hand away and rubbed my palm on my pants, my legs rubbery but solidly my own. “What did you just do?”

  Tanner had the grace to blush. “I’m overly curious that you’ve managed to fly under my radar, and I apologize.”

  “Next time you want to know something about me, ask.” I turned and went to one knee.

&nb
sp; The frost coating the head was melting in the warmth of the enclosed space. I pulled on another pair of disposable gloves and folded the halves of the cut plastic over the nose, whispering an abbreviated prayer. Now that I wasn’t hovering around panic mode, I could see the head was more child-sized, though the features were clearly adult.

  “This shouldn’t stay out any longer,” I said. “Can you please open the freezer?”

  Tanner jumped to help. His phone went off as he lowered the lid. “I’ll take this outside.”

  I washed the poultry shears in the sink, left them in the drainer, and took my time checking the kitchen thoroughly, even opening the tiny freezer inside the refrigerator. The compartment was barely big enough for two aluminum ice trays, let alone body parts, but I was aiming for professional thoroughness.

  The sitting room, located on the north side of the house, was still dim. Taking out my phone, I compared the image of the severed head with the faces carved into the picture frames. I swept my flashlight over the rest of the photographs, getting close enough to sneeze from the dust and ascertain there was more than a passing resemblance to at least two of the younger men. It wasn’t a perfect match, but it was close enough to call: the heads in the bags weren’t one-hundred percent human. And neither were some of the Pearmains.

  * * *

  When I peeked out the kitchen window, the Provincial agent was standing in a patch of sun, slapping his hat against the side of his thigh, the other hand holding his phone to his ear. I lingered on the details of his physique, highlighted by the cut of his pants. There was no way those were off-the-rack Carhartts.

  He noticed me when he finished the call and beckoned me to join him. I noticed his shoulder-to-hip ratio and declared it perfect.

  “You ready to walk the orchard?” he asked.

  “I don’t remember much about the specific layout of this property.”

  “The photographs you received. Can you pinpoint where they might have been taken?”