by Coralie Moss
“Letting go of my magic seemed less important than keeping our household running smoothly and keeping your dad happy. We were young when we got together. We both changed after we were married and after we had the two of you. Changes which had nothing to do with either of you.” I made it a point to plant a kiss on Harper’s troubled forehead.
When he asked me to elaborate, I cut him off. I hadn’t forgiven myself for the neglect, and the sourness in my stomach was spreading to my heart. “He’s my ex-husband, but he’s still your father. We’re both to blame for our marriage not working out.”
Harp took a long swallow of the juice, a challenge in his guarded eyes. “You’re not going to forbid us to explore our magic, are you?”
“Absolutely not. Your skills and talents are yours to develop as you’re ready, and I will help you in any way I can.”
“And you’re going to study too right?”
“Absolutely.”
He nodded. “I’m glad. For all of us. What do you think about Tanner?”
“I only met him two days ago. I like him so far.”
“I do too. I’m excited and a little scared and…”
I waited as my oldest struggled to articulate.
Thatcher was awake and listening, ready to jump in with the brotherly thought-sharing and sentence-finishing they’d been doing their entire speaking lives. “And we shouldn’t tell Dad, right?”
I handed Thatch his glass of juice, extended my legs and crossed my ankles, and waited for the voices from both sides of the fence to flood my head in one…two... “I think we keep this amongst ourselves while we’re figuring it all out.”
Both nodded their agreement and dove in to speculating about how their magic might manifest and what they could do to boost their abilities. The phrases they tossed back and forth sounded like they’d been pulled from a discussion of their favorite online multi-player game. I scooted backward out of the tent, my work for the moment done. Overhead, the aged crabapple tree’s leafy branches carried a smattering of misshapen fruit. My older cousins and I had played battle games with the apples we found on the ground, and the trunk and lowest branches were already gnarled when my mother and I first arrived at the house.
Mama.
Moments of intense mothering left me wanting a mother of my own. I ran my fingertips over the nearest fruit. Tears blurred my vision, and I gave in to the invitation to step closer and closer still, until my sternum fit snugly over the place just below where the trunk separated into two main branches. I rested the side of my face against the bark and reached my arms up as though to partner in a dance with this steadfast friend.
The Old One had a lot of life coursing under its scabby surface. And it had a heartbeat, slow, so very, very slow. The dappled sun warmed my back, and my feet reached below the uppermost layers of sod and found a groundwater aquifer—sandstone and siltstone; shale and conglomerate, glacial sediments, fossils and mudstone.
I hugged the crabapple more tightly, close to full-on crying. My breast bone became spongy, like living wood. The whoosh of blood through my veins matched the capillary-like action taking place beneath the bark, a drawing up of water from the roots all the way to the leaves and fruit.
Interspersed with those same, nourishment-seeking roots was a whole other network. I followed the mycelial layer past the boundaries of my property, coursing faster and faster, to other apple trees and orchards until I crash landed at the base of one of the oldest trees in the Pearmains’ orchard.
A laugh—rich, resonant, and feminine—rolled through the flexible underground plexus and flooded the porous spaces in my bones.
“Mom.”
I ran. Or I tried. But my feet and toes were rooted to the ground at the base of the ancient tree and my arms were wrapped around the crabapple’s trunk, and every morsel of awareness was caught somewhere between the far section of Cliff and Abi’s orchard and my lone malus Rosaceae companion, miles away.
“Mom!”
The worry in my sons’ voices, helped along by firm hands shaking my shoulders and gripping my wrists, gave me a route back. Honing in on the beacon of their touch, I crashed into my body and slumped to the ground.
“Mom.”
“I’m okay,” I whispered. “I’m okay.”
I wasn’t okay. Whatever valve or switch that regulated the flow of my magic, the one that had clicked to the on position two days ago, was now dialled to four. Or maybe five. The bottoms of my feet tingled, while liquid echoes of the connection to the Pearmains swam up the connective tissue in my legs and swirled around the bowl of my pelvis to gather at the base of my spine.
“Just let me lie here for a sec.” Why was there so much internal movement through my hips and belly? Sharp pains pinged from side to side, like I was ovulating from both ovaries and having menstrual cramps at the same time.
Harper and Thatch kneeled on either side of my torso. “Do you want us to get Tanner?”
“No.” The disturbance on the left side of my belly included itchy skin near the tattoo. I shielded my eyes from the brightening sun and scratched over the layers of my underwear and pants. Rolling my head to the side, I said, “Let me catch my breath. Do you know what you want for breakfast?”
Thatcher let out an exasperated sigh. “Mom, we can get our own breakfast. We should be asking what do you need?”
My body returned to normal in the spaces between a handful of breaths. Harper brushed off whatever bits of grasses and leaves had collected on my back and helped me to stand. As soon as I relaxed from my neck and arms down, my fingers unclenched, and I dropped the short, thick section of branch I must have grabbed as I fell. I bent to pick up the stick.
It was straight, tapered, and the perfect length for a wand. My old one, held together with duct tape and sentimental attachment, was more than ready to retire.
I tucked the length of crabapple wood into a back pocket and hugged my sons. “I think what I need most is to get over whatever just happened. And get myself to work.”
* * *
Inside the house, the tap-tap of a toothbrush hitting the rim of the sink beat out the rhythm of a normal morning routine. I was walking toward the bathroom from my bedroom at the end of the hall, where I had placed the branchlet on my neglected altar until I could strip the bark and sand and oil the wood.
“Tanner, are you planning to go to Cliff and Abi’s with me?” I asked.
Tanner had experience with the two other sets of growers, but the incident occurred in my jurisdiction. I wanted to collect soil and water samples, as well as bark, leaves, and fruit from the older trees.
“I’d prefer to have you come along or meet me there,” I added.
He stepped out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist. There was nothing underneath the swath of white terrycloth except skin, and the man had gorgeous legs to go with his beautiful feet.
“Now?” he asked, his toothbrush gripped in the side of his mouth.
Sure, Marechal, drop the towel, and let’s go. No one’ll notice the naked provincial agent in my car.
It took every ounce of willpower to direct my gaze above his waist. But then I saw his chest up close and the pouch nestled between his pectorals, and I turned and practically fled back to the sanctuary of my room. “I need to stop by the office first to grab our collection kit.”
“Give me ten minutes.”
Eight minutes later, Tanner was fully clothed and stretched out in the passenger seat of my car. He levered his seat all the way back before we left my driveway and kept his eyes closed the entire ride, even through the stop at my office.
I parked outside the Pearmains’ gate and cut the engine. Tanner shifted his hips and tapped my wrist as I prepared to step out.
“Calliope.” He was almost supine and turned his head slowly to face me. “I don’t think I’ve said thank you enough for your hospitality and your generosity. Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome.” I ducked and stopped. “And thank you for cleaning
up the…the blood.”
He nodded and tugged on the lever, readjusting his body to face in my direction. One arm draped over the back of his seat, and the other rested on the dashboard. His body had that there’s more I want to say coil to it, but the interior of an electric car wasn’t big enough to hold the conversations waiting for us. I slid away, tilted the driver’s seat forward, and grabbed the evidence bag from the back seat.
“I can carry that for you,” he offered, looking up at me through eyes shaded by an errant lock of hair.
I shook my head. I’d been hauling bags across fields in all kinds of conditions since my first day on the job. The weight centered me. “I’ve got it. You deal with the gate. And pay attention to anything that feels off. I’m already apprehensive.”
Big conversations with my kids and out-of-body experiences first thing in the morning did that to me.
Tanner murmured his agreement, his attention on the fence and yard. All traces of the salt circle were gone, as was the collection of assorted trinkets. He pushed and held the gate open and followed me in, stopping to peek into the windows of an older model four-door sedan.
“Do you think that’s River’s car?” I asked.
“River’s. Or Rose’s. I’m not sure. But one or both have been with Clifford and Abigail since they got here on Tuesday.”
No one greeted us as we rounded the curved path to the front entrance of the farmhouse, but classical music wafted on air currents and a peaceful sensation patted my worry down to a mild case of neighborly concern. I was debating whether we should enter the house or continue around when a man with short, salt-and-pepper brown hair opened the screen door and stepped onto the porch. Seeing Tanner, River bounded down the stairs and took him into a back-thumping embrace.
“I’m very happy to see you both. Our patients are doing well, all things considered.” Deep brown eyes met mine as he offered me his hand. River’s mouth was framed by a closely trimmed beard shot through with white around his lips and over his chin. “Rose is with them on the back porch. And there’s something I want to show you, but it can wait.”
We followed him past the formal sitting room with its collection of photographs in unique frames and out the kitchen door to the rear portion of the wraparound porch. Clifford and Abigail were in their rocking chairs. Rose occupied a third.
“Hello, Calliope.” Age and hard physical labor had shrunk Clifford Pearmain. He wasn’t as hale and hearty as he’d appeared at the anniversary celebration in May, but his cheeks had better color compared to the last time I saw him.
I embraced the still-imposing farmer in a quick hug and turned my attention to the more frail Abigail, whose shaking fingers picked at a tissue. I crouched on the floor near her rocking chair. “Hello, Abi. It’s good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you, too, dear. Who’s the handsome fellow you’ve brought?” A bit of preening accompanied Abigail’s question. The hand at her temple patting flyaway gray hairs hinted she had her wits about her. Plus, Tanner was hard to miss.
He bent to offer his hand and took hers gently. “Ma’am. Tanner Marechal. I was here on Tuesday when Calliope found you.”
“Pull up a chair and sit awhile, Tanner. It’s a lovely day, and River’s made us lunch.”
I eyed the platter of tea sandwiches, noted the absence of deli meats, and reached for a small triangle for politeness’s sake. Cucumbers and fresh dill with a mayonnaise-based spread. A perky, optimistic energy zipped from my tongue to my belly. River or Rose had added a little something extra to the food—and Leilani would find at least one ally with a similar gift in our new circle of magical contacts.
I turned my attention to the small talk, now peppered with comments about the summer weather and other perennial farming topics. Once the sandwich plate was emptied, River brought out butter cookies and a pitcher of iced herbal tea.
I reached into my backpack for my cell phone, a notebook, and a pen. “Abi, Cliff, do you two feel up to answering some questions?”
They exchanged glances, Abi’s worried and Cliff’s more settled resignation.
He patted his wife’s knotted fingers and brushed at the front of his short-sleeved shirt. “We are.”
I prepared to record the conversation, placing my cell phone next to the plate of cookies and positioning the table between Clifford and Abigail’s legs. “Do either of you remember anything about this past Tuesday, July twenty-fourth. Or even Monday the twenty-third?” Faltering, I waved both my hands. “Let me rephrase that. Did you have any appointments scheduled on Monday or Tuesday here at the house or the orchard? Were there any unexpected visitors?”
Abigail signaled she would speak first. “Sundays we go to church. And we have a late lunch. It’s a day of rest, Saturday being the Farmer’s Market, and you know how exhausting that can be, Calliope.”
I agreed. “So, there was nothing unusual this past Sunday. What about Monday?”
“Now, wait a minute, Calliope,” Clifford interjected. “We didn’t say there was nothing unusual. I like to have a walk in the evening, helps with my digestion.”
Abigail nodded at her husband and continued her slow rocking.
“I checked on the new stock,” he continued, pointing over my shoulder. “Those trees we planted earlier in the spring, and I would have walked back to the house but I felt like stretching my legs a little further. So I went the long way ‘round to the oldest section of the orchard.” He gripped the curved ends of the armrests and peered at me, his wild, steel-gray eyebrows lifting. “You familiar with that section, Calliope? Those trees might look like they’re done an’ ready to be chopped down and hauled off for firewood, but there’s life left in ‘em yet. They’re kind of like old friends you just can’t get rid of. Know what I mean?”
Everyone on the porch hung on Clifford’s recitation, and everyone nodded at his question.
“So, I went around the back, just stood there, looking at those old trees. Thought about their lives and my life and everything this land has seen.” His rheumy eyes stared past the crowded porch toward his beloved orchard. “Something told me it was time to make amends.”
“Amends for what, Cliff?” I asked, leaning into the moment.
He kept rocking, his gaze on the hidden horizon. My question hung in the air unanswered.
Tanner went into the house and returned with a handful of framed pictures. “Clifford. Abigail, we need to ask you about these.”
“Those are family pictures, Agent,” Cliff said. His hands gripped the armrests and relaxed. “Been around for years and years.”
“It’s not the photographs. It’s the frames,” Tanner specified. He handed one to Abi and one to Cliff. “These are hand-carved.”
“Yes, they are.”
“There are faces in the corners. We think they’re the hidden folk, perhaps a type of garden troll.”
“You would be correct in your assumption,” said Clifford, his lower jaw trembling. “When my ancestors arrived on this island, these hectares were seen to by trolls, and they didn’t take kindly to newcomers showing up and imposing their will on the land. Took both sides an entire generation to figure out how to share. And then it took my great-grandmother falling in love with one for it all to fall apart.” He smoothed his fingers over the carved faces. “Abi and I been tryin’ to set things right. The two grandsons who’re taking over? Their troll ancestry has reasserted, and we’re thinking this might be the best way to protect them and keep the two sides who love this land united.”
Tanner cleared his throat and pressed on. “Trolls are magical beings. Your story affirms local legend that says they have an affinity for orchards. But legend can’t explain why we found two severed heads in your freezer. And why you both were under a very powerful spell when we found you.”
Abigail worried the edge of her apron, a different one, similarly aged and patched as the one she was wearing when we found her on Tuesday. She picked up where her husband left off. “Clifford found them in t
he orchard, back by the oldest trees, the ones that haven’t been doing so well. We considered tearing those trees out, but then we decided the boys could make that decision, once they get here.” She continued, “There were no bodies, just the heads. We didn’t know who to call or what more to do so we decided to store them until we could figure out our next step.” Tears streamed down Abigail’s face, and her thin voice had begun to waver. “We did not kill those poor souls. We’ve lived with them on this land for as long as I can remember. Peacefully. They like the trees, and the trees like them.”
“Did you find the tunnels?” asked Clifford.
“We found three under older trees that look to be healthy and producing apples,” I said. “Are those the ones you’re referring to?”
Clifford nodded. “Did you explore ‘em?”
“One of our colleagues went down the ladder,” Tanner answered, “but didn’t go farther.”
“When I was younger and more agile, I’d stick my head down, check things out. Bring food.” Cliff looked at Abi and smiled. “Trolls liked my wife’s goat cheese. They took good care of the trees. And we left them in peace.”
Abigail’s hands began to shake even more. “Clifford, tell them the rest. Tell them about why we maintain the tunnels.”
“Those tunnels are meant to be places of refuge and safety for whoever needs them. The Pearmains have done their best to keep them open and passable for over a hundred years.”
“When you say, whoever needs them,” I interrupted, “what do you mean?”
“I mean those tunnels have sheltered more’n trolls. They’re part of a network that runs through this island. I know of two other orchards that connect to ours.”
Rose came off her chair and stood protectively in front of Abigail. “Tanner, Calliope, I think these two have had enough questions for one day. River and I can stay until tomorrow. Then I have a date with Calliope over the weekend.”
Her stern voice and withering look conveyed that she would not be argued with, about either point, yet I was surprised to hear my weekend was spoken for. I hadn’t started taking the herbal tinctures Belle had given me; even if I had, it was far too soon for results. Or maybe I didn’t need to have my period for this particular ritual.
