by Coralie Moss
Stepping off the lowest rung, I pulled the long string hanging from the ceiling and listened for the click of the lightbulb turning off. Tanner’s chest was to my back, both his arms raised as he guided the slightly warped attic door closed. He quickly lowered one arm, wrapped it around my shoulders, and let go of the door.
I tamped the urge to pivot on the balls of my toes—a dusty ballet dancer in dirty khakis and a snap-front shirt—and burrow my nose into his breastbone.
He turned me to face him with his free arm. “Calli?”
I got my wish. A cluster of curly chest hairs tickled the tip of my nose. My mouth went dry, and my lips likely tasted of old attic. I slipped my arms around his waist and waited.
If inanimate objects could hold their breath, then the walls and floorboards of my little A-frame were doing exactly that right along with me. I was safe. Buffered. And we were the only ones in my house.
I was safe—we were safe—from the presence in the orchard.
Tanner stroked his hands down my back and tugged at my shirt, slipping warm fingers between my skin and the sweaty patch of cotton. I shifted my hips when his fingertips asked permission to slide below the waistband of my pants. Tilting my head back, a cool blue light from the waxing moon washed over one side of his face.
He scanned the periphery of my neck, cheeks, and jaw before settling on eye-to-eye contact. “It would be so easy to court you, Calliope Jones.”
I lifted my heels off the floor and kissed the left side of his mouth and the right side.
“It would be so easy to be courted by you, Tanner Marechal,” I said, giving his name the French inflection that could make even a packing list sound sexy. “But I’m not ready.”
Chapter 11
The drive to Carmanah Walbran Provincial Park was bumpy and dusty and felt interminably long. I was glad for the use of Harper’s Jeep, which provided high clearance over the jumbled rocks and wash-outs that punctuated the logging road. I had to pay attention to what was directly in front of me, rather than run fantasies of what it would have been like to toss every caution and warning to the four directions last night and invite Tanner into my bed.
At one point, I stopped the vehicle and pulled over to stretch my legs and back. With the engine off, the only sounds were bugs and birds, and though I could have reached below the manmade surface of the road, I didn’t. I was afraid of what I might uncover in these logged-out, clear-cut areas of once magnificent forest, and without the support of the ground, I wasn’t equipped to explore my feelings for Tanner.
I could, however, acknowledge the rootlets taking hold in my heart, tender shoots of self-discovery that had nothing to do with being attracted to a man and everything to do with nurturing my witchy leanings.
Cleaning my hands on a disposable wipe, I got back into the Jeep and continued, and when I finally pulled into the park, I was ready to embrace my destiny. Mostly. Being in a vehicle by myself for five hours on my way to face a ritual of unknown proportions had shown me the humor in my situation. Plus, I always held the power to say no.
There were a dozen or so trucks, SUVs, and campers in the parking area. I slid off the front seat, opened the back door, and gathered my things. Only one path, marked by government-issued signs painted a familiar shade of brown, led out of the parking area and into the woods. Following an overlapping chorus of voices, I located the correct campsites. Bright orange and royal blue tents were visible behind a privacy fence of trees, along with small picnic tables loaded with coolers and propane cook-stoves. Eclectically dressed women bustled around the tables and benches.
At a site further down the path, a woman poked her head out from between the trees and waved. “Are you Calliope?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Busy B. C’mon, we’re making dinner and getting dressed. Oh! And I brought a two-person tent so if you’d like to share, I have room.”
I was fine with sleeping in the same tent as any of the other witches. Except maybe for Rose. Her imperial air would guarantee I got no sleep.
“So, do you know all the women here?” I asked, twisting the cap off the input valve of my self-inflating camping pad.
“Yes and no. I know all of them cozily and a few of them more intimately, seeing as how we’re in the cluster of covens that include the smaller Gulf Islands but not Vancouver Island. Including every witch at every meeting would be too much. Most of the women who’re here are the more senior ones from their covens.” Busy tapped my shoulder and crawled closer before she sat and tucked her voluminous skirt around her tiny feet. “It’s a big deal,” she whispered, leaning in, “this thing they’re doing for you. I don’t think I’ve ever been to a ritual where we have to take the initiate through so many stages all in one night.”
“Should I be scared?” I asked, mostly joking.
Busy’s honey-colored softness gave way to a hardened amber appraisal. “A little.” She gave a curt nod and continued, “Once we start, we can’t stop for anything. I’ve heard of women fainting. Never heard of anyone actually dying…”
I choked on my water and spit a mouthful across the top of my sleeping bag, “Dying?”
“I’m kidding, Calliope,” she giggled, slapping my knee and softening. “I’m kidding.”
The clang of a wooden spoon hitting the bottom of a pot saved me from hearing any more details, truthful or teasing, and brought both of us out of the tent and onto the pathway connecting the campers. Curious faces greeted me when I ducked under low-hanging branches and into a double-sized site, with two fire pits, two picnic tables, and eleven women. Thirteen, once Busy and I made our way through the branches and stood side-by-side.
“Hi.” I waved at the cluster of witches. Most of them looked to be in their late thirties and up, with no one younger than twenty-five. They were witches, though, so I could have been off by a few years. Or decades.
“This is Calliope Jones, everyone,” said Rose, pointing at me with a chef’s knife. “Let’s fill our plates. Then we’ll introduce ourselves after we’ve all had a bit to eat.” She turned to me. “We have our given names, and we have our self-chosen ritual names. And for the purposes of ceremonies such as the one we are creating tonight, we give ourselves the option of adopting a name that is personally symbolic, thereby amplifying our identity—or the role we are playing within the sacred circle.” She lowered her voice for my ears only and emphasized her words with tight flourishes of the knife. “This Ritual of Initiation is not held often. Rarely have I ever come across a witch so ill-trained, yet so obviously in touch with at least a modicum of her powers.”
I gulped down my nervousness. Rose had given me a backhanded compliment—I thought—by acknowledging the truth I was both a neophyte and a potential diamond in the rough.
“Busy, would you please start us off?” Rose asked.
Busy nodded, handed her plate to the witch to her right, and stood. “My name is Busy B. I am here to represent the Daughter in the form of Astrea, virgin goddess of innocence and purity.”
She sat, reclaimed her meal, and smiled at the young woman with the freckled, fine-boned visage to her left.
“My name is Cordelia. I am here to represent the Maiden in the form of Artemis.”
The next woman to stand, another of the younger ones, had a mischievous glint in her eyes as she welcomed me. “I am here to represent the Blood Sister. My name is Sapphos Star.”
The witches continued, and though I tried to remember everyone’s given name and Goddess aspect, I couldn’t, except for those I’d already met: Belle the herbalogist and, of course, Rose. When she stood, the women in the circle quieted their chirping.
“My name is Rose de Benauge. I invoke the name of Kalima, and I represent the Dark Mother.” When she finished, she silently acknowledged every woman in the circle before she turned her attention fully to me. “And you, Calliope Jones, are here as Priestess.”
* * *
After introductions were finished and dinner plates and bowls were
emptied, Rose stood, rising to her full five-feet-four-inches, and spoke. “If your role is to set up for tonight’s ritual, you are exempt from clean up. Plan to meet me at the trailhead in ten minutes. Everyone else, pay attention. Those of you on kitchen detail can put all foodstuffs—and I mean all—into the trunk of Belle’s car. Make certain there is nothing left out that would interest bears. Once we’re good to go here,” she added, gesturing to the tables, “and while we still have some light, gather your ritual objects, change into your dresses, and I shall see you at the trees.”
The other women shooed me away from the eating area with the excuse that, as the star of the night, my time would be better spent in preparing myself. Power emanated from every one of them. Even Busy and Belle, who I’d met earlier, had taken on a kind of gravitas the closer my watch ticked to the start of the ritual.
Back at the shared tent, I brushed off my trepidation and shook out the knee-length red dress I’d brought per Rose’s instruction. Next, I washed my feet at the water pump and slipped a fresh pair of lightweight wool socks over clean toes before re-donning my boots. All I had to add was the length of ribbon, my athame and my wand, and the poncho my aunt had assembled from black-and-white squares crocheted by my mother. At least, that was the story my aunt offered. I had enough skill with a needle to keep the garment mended and would to do so until the end of its days or mine, whichever came first.
“Ready?” Busy stepped through the row of trees that provided privacy to each campsite. Her smile infused me with sweetness and strength.
“Ready,” I replied. “Should I go to the trailhead?”
“Sure. Or wait for me if you’d like company. I want to wash the smell of scallions off my fingers before I put on my dress.”
“I’ll wait here.” I gestured to the bench at our picnic table and tucked my dress behind my knees, avoiding the greasy spots as I sat. I parted my lips and exhaled a soft breath. The humming sensation that accompanied Busy was oddly comforting.
“Don’t be nervous.” My roomie returned smelling of soap. The tent swayed as she rifled through her things. “You’re in very good hands, Calliope Jones.”
“I know. I trust Rose.”
Busy unzipped the flap and crawled out, clutching the skirt of her white dress to her belly. She stayed in a crouch as she closed the entrance to the tent. “Don’t want any bugs or critters joining us tonight.”
Dropping her hem, she stood and wiggled her curves into place.
“You look radiant!” I was amazed at the transformation. Busy’s honey-gold hair floated away from her face, catching every last bit of light. “It’s like you’re a…a goddess!”
Busy beamed. “We’re all goddesses,” she assured me, “and tonight, we’re here to celebrate you. No pressure, of course.”
I giggled. “Let’s go meet the others before I totally chicken out.”
Chapter 12
The walk to the sacred grove was mostly awe-filled and peaceful. I had to keep my gaze to the ground, what with tree roots making random appearances and loose footing where winter’s snow and ice had deposited a tumble of river rocks. Even the raised boardwalk, with its rotted or missing slats and loose nails, called for caution.
Ahead of us, Rose’s group had tied strips of cloth to head-height branches, marking the turns with a luminescent wave whenever the path split. And when a section of boardwalk dead-ended at a washout, we hiked up our skirts and dresses and scrambled along a narrow ledge. The drop to the shallow river below was less than six feet, but it was straight down and I had no intention of needing any kind of a rescue before, during, or after the ritual. Once the path resumed, I followed it around thigh-high clumps of ferns to where the others waited.
My nighttime sensors took in the depth of quiet in the old growth forest. Pausing, I gazed upward past the lacy tips of branches to witness twilight settling its sheer blue-black cape over the massive Sitka spruces ringing the ritual area. These trees had stood for hundreds of years, some for over a thousand, and I could feel the weight of their ancient presence.
The witches spaced themselves into a rough circle within the clearing. Once I was at my designated spot, I unlaced my boots and bared my feet. I needed to root down to find a place of inner calm, one that wasn’t worrying about leaf mold-loving critters or spiders and other bugs. Especially not the bugs with hundreds of squiggly legs running up and down their sides.
I wasn’t in the basement of my aunt’s house. No one had forgotten me. I was fine. I was in a circle of powerful women, and it was my night to be initiated into the mysteries of modern day witch-hood.
A ripple moved through the women.
Rose spoke. “As we prepare to enter this ritual of initiation, does anyone have anything they wish to say before we begin?”
Heads, illuminated by the light of the rising full moon, shook slowly.
“Very well. Calliope, as you are a witch who is new to ritual,” she continued, everyone’s attention settling on me, “there is one thing you must understand. Rituals do not always take hold in the way we hope or intend. There will be moments tonight when you will be asked to trust this place, to trust the women around you, and to trust me. I will explain every part of our ritual as it is happening. As you follow my voice, as you feel that trust build, know that hardest of all will be the moments when you must trust yourself.”
Rose’s words hovered in the air between us.
“L’Runa will assist me.”
L’Runa’s skin glowed like polished walnut. Long, skinny braids of hair bleached white hung from either side of her head down to her waist. Hawk feathers formed a wing-like fan at the front of her crown, with miniature ears of blue corn to either side. The power circulating through her almost sent me to my knees. I refocused on Rose’s words.
“If everyone would take a few steps toward the center of our circle so that L’Runa doesn’t have to trample the plants, we will start with grounding and purification.”
Cloth rustled against ferns and bushes of low-growing salal as the women drew closer to one another.
“We ground ourselves, to be present to the work we are doing and to be present to our connection to everything around us. Find a comfortable stance, close your eyes, and connect to your breath. Relax your throat, your belly, your knees.”
I followed Rose’s voice, and while night moths of anxiety and anticipation still fluttered about, I eventually found a steady source of support in my bones. I pictured them holding me up much like the sturdy beams anchoring my beloved house.
“Send your awareness to the soil below your feet and deeper, and deeper still, through stone, through water, to the fire at the center of our planet.”
I followed Rose’s voice down and back up, opening my eyes with care when instructed for the next step of the ritual.
L’Runa untied the bundle of herbs and feathers hanging from the strips of white leather girdling her hips and turned to Belle. She dipped her bundle into the water-filled chalice and sprinkled Belle’s head and shoulders. I caught a soft whisper of words, a repeated chant that grew in texture and breadth as each woman added her voice when L’Runa stood before them and repeated the motions.
When the tall witch paused in front of me, she offered a quick smile, one that softened the angles of her face and called my attention to her ice-blue eyes. L’Runa raised the volume of her voice and slowed her cadence enough so I could hear the exact syllables of the chant.
Words—soft with blessing, sharp with warning—penetrated my skin and created a netting below the surface. The sensation was simultaneously odd and familiar, sticky and viscous, generating spider web-like connections between me and the other women and every living thing around us.
I let my wonder be and surrendered any search for an explanation.
L’Runa handed the chalice and bundle to Rose and went to one knee, allowing the petite leader easier access to her head and shoulders. When L’Runa stood, she placed the ritual objects in the center of the circle an
d took her place between Elphane and Belle.
“Now, we cast our circle,” Rose said.
Every witch turned to face the same direction. A quick scan of the night sky informed me we were facing North. Rose turned her left hand to face the ground, raised her right arm, and drew a pentacle in the air. I couldn’t hear the words she spoke, but when we turned as one to the right—East—I could hear her brief invocation to Fire, the next turn to Water, and finally, to Earth.
She paused when we returned to facing North, pivoted clockwise to face the center of our loose circle, and pointed her right arm to the ground, informing us the circle was cast and we were now between the worlds.
I would be lying if I said I didn’t feel a palpable difference in the air around me, in myself. I ran my hands up and down my outer thighs, just to feel the solidity of my body, and made certain to listen for my heartbeat echoing in my ears.
“I will now call in the cardinal directions and the elements and invoke the Goddesses.” Rose lifted her hands, palms forward and fingers spread, and began to speak. The glow from the moonstone rings decorating her fingers brightened. “Powers of the East, please be present. Bless us with words that lift our hearts. Teach us to embrace clarity of mind.”
A breeze played with the hem of my dress. Goosebumps flitted up my legs and arms. I held my breath.
Rose released her words, the moonstones faded, and she made a quarter turn. “Powers of the South, please be present. Bless us with the transformational power of fire, teach us the promise of renewal held in every day.” I watched in open-mouthed awe as flames flickered over the hearts, bellies, and foreheads of the witches across the circle from me. A warm tickle drew a gasp from my throat; I was similarly aflame, until Rose made another quarter turn to invoke the next direction. “Powers of the West, please be present. Bless us with waters that nourish and cleanse. Teach us the power of the steady course.”
