Witches of The Wood

by Skylar Finn

  “No!” She looked annoyed. “Why does everyone always assume there’s Satan worship involved? It’s more like—and I hate to bring up the guy thing, Grandma is so old-fashioned—but like if you, as a woman, weren’t limited to thinking of yourself as somebody’s wife, mother, and daughter. Or girlfriend, or whatever. If people weren’t constantly talking over you, interrupting you, undermining your feelings and intuition, telling you that you’re wrong or you’re hysterical or emotional or too sensitive. Telling you what you can and can’t do. Imagine what you would do. What you would realize, with your natural intelligence and being so much a part of nature.”

  This was not what I had been expecting to hear. Tamsin sounded less like a person on a broomstick, riding around a wind-swept plain under a full moon, and more like my freshman year Women’s Studies professor.

  “I think that all women are witches, or that they could be,” she continued. “They just don’t feel the power inside of them. It’s like they’re not allowed. Like somebody tells them not to have it. That’s why nobody can stand your dad, by the way,” she added.

  I ignored the riff on my father. I still wasn’t sure how I felt about him, knowing what I knew now. I was too busy struggling to understand what she was telling me. “What do you mean? It’s all just feminine intuition?”

  She looked disgusted. “That’s just some stupid phrase a bunch of men made up a long time ago to undermine the possibility that a woman—any woman, let alone many—might be smarter than they were. Like there’s some mythical quality about figuring out completely obvious things based on a pre-existing set of circumstances. Like, you knew there was something up with you, even having been legally kidnapped and kept in captivity your whole life, right? How did you know?”

  I objected to her interpretation of my life to date, but was again too captivated by what she was saying to argue the point. “I…sensed it?”

  “Right! From like, a faraway land in another place, you still knew, without knowing how, that you didn’t quite belong and there was something special about you. That’s not a coincidence. That’s your connection to us. It might not be something you can see or define or put in a book and make people worship every week their whole lives, but that doesn’t make it any less real.”

  I assumed this was a reference to going to church on Sunday, and I imagined what Grandma Hale would do if she were here with Tamsin: beat her with a rolled-up newspaper, probably.

  “That’s it?” I demanded. “So how are you making your wallpaper move and stuff like that? There has to be more to it than that.”

  “Oh, there is!” she added hastily. “I mean, once you realize that power within yourself, you can do almost anything with it. Like for me, it’s enchanting things to look like more than what they are. And I’m also really good with elements, like water, fire, earth, and air? But again, I mean, we’re not just conjuring stuff out of thin air. Out a cauldron, or whatever.” She rolled her eyes. “Or like, putting love spells on people and stuff. It’s based on things that already exist. We can’t manipulate something that isn’t already there. Like your vision? I’m sure it did happen. I don’t know if you saw it before it happened, as it was happening, or after. It’s hard to say. But you definitely saw something real.”

  “So this girl, I might have seen somebody hurting her?”

  “It’s possible.” She sighed. “I mean, as far as powers go, that’s not a good one to have.” She shook her head. “Just, you know, in my opinion. Too much responsibility. I don’t understand it. Like, are you supposed to prevent the visions? Help the people in them? Why do they happen?”

  “You don’t know either?” I was disappointed. I was hoping I could find out from Tamsin without having to ask my mother. Or my grandmother. Especially my grandmother.

  “No,” she admitted. “My mother’s thing is that she’s sensitive to other people’s pain. Which, in normal people, is called empathy. In her case, she can see it. And she can heal it. Physical, mental, emotional, or spiritual. She sees it in colors. She can manipulate the colors, taking some away and replacing them with others. Aurora—you know, our grandmother—she can see into people’s minds. And your mom.” She stopped, frowning. “Well, she used to see things, too. But then she stopped. I guess she didn’t want to see them anymore.”

  “What did she see?” I asked, watching her closely.

  “I think…” Tamsin paused, as if she didn’t want to say. I waited. “I think she saw your dad taking you away from her,” she finished reluctantly. “And she still couldn’t stop it from happening.”

  I almost wished she hadn’t told me. I decided to change the subject again.

  “So what does it mean when somebody practices black magic?” I asked, remembering what they’d said that afternoon. Black magic. The worst kind.

  She looked spooked. I could tell I’d made some kind of magical faux pas, addressing it so bluntly. I could also tell she knew I didn’t know any better; that it didn’t mean the same thing to me that it did to her.

  “Imagine being able to do the things I just described,” she said slowly. “And then imagine using it for evil.”

  A chill skated up my spine. I’m good with elements, water, fire, earth, and air. She can manipulate feelings, taking some away and replacing them with others. She can see what’s in other people’s minds. She can see what will happen, before it comes to pass. I imagined the reverse of these skills would be very dark indeed. The ability to create pain at will. The ability to read minds and use it against people. The ability to predict the future.

  Tamsin waved her hand at the ceiling. For a brief moment, it was vivid with images of fire and torment: war.

  “And that’s why,” she said seriously, “magic never passes through men.”

  8

  Smoke and Ash

  I knew very well what my father would say if he could hear any of this. I thought of his lecture at dinner, the night before I left for college. Oddly enough, it wasn’t all that different from what Tamsin just told me.

  “Sammy,” he said, using my childhood nickname. I looked up from my glass, startled. It was part of Grandma Hale’s graduation present: one of six crystal goblets, accompanied by a bottle of sparkling apple cider. I was startled because he never called me that anymore.

  “You’re going to meet a lot of people at school,” he said seriously. “They’re going to try to put a lot of ideas in your head: ideas that are really just their beliefs, and their agendas. You might come home with a new haircut and a different wardrobe, and that’s fine. I want you to experiment, because that’s what college is for. But you might also come home with a different set of values, and that’s what concerns me.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, intrigued. What was at college that it might turn me into a totally different person?

  “I want you to think for yourself,” he said. “I always have. Not what I think, but what you think. And not what other people think, but what you think. That’s what will protect you over the course of your life. Being your own woman. Nobody else’s. Not my daughter, and not somebody’s girlfriend, or later—somebody’s wife. You’re Samantha Hale, and you know what you want from this life. So if somebody tells you there’s a certain way to think or behave or believe, even if it sounds good, even if there are a lot of things that seem right about it—be wary. They might be the last person you’d ever want to listen to.”

  “Who’s going to try and influence me into being somebody else?” I asked, worried.

  He studied me over the rim of his highball glass before setting it down. He picked up his fork and knife. As he carved into the roast, pink juice spraying across the table, he was more serious than I’d ever heard him.

  “Liberals,” he said.

  Downstairs in the kitchen, the table was set for six. There were two plates at either end and two on each side. I sat next to my mother and across from Tamsin, who sat next to Minerva. My grandmother sat at the head of the table. I eyed the sixth chair curi
ously. Who was it for?

  “Is that for—” I started to say “the devil,” then remembered what Tamsin had told me upstairs. “—somebody else?” I finished innocently.

  My grandmother shot me a knowing look. “It’s for your grandfather,” she said. “In his memory. He won’t actually be joining us, of course.”

  “Is that possible?” I asked eagerly. “Are there ghosts?”

  “If you had no spirit, then why would you dream?” Minerva replied logically, as if I asked her why it rained. “Your body is a container for your soul, and your soul is immortal. Some people like to hang around.”

  I glanced at the sixth chair.

  “Not your grandfather,” my grandmother said sternly.

  “Wait a second,” I said suddenly. “If men can’t have magic, and don’t know about magic, then what did you tell him? About being a witch?”

  Minerva shot Tamsin a look. “What have you been telling Sam?” she asked.

  Tamsin suddenly became highly interested in her potatoes. Aurora looked at her knowingly before she turned back to me.

  “To answer your question, I didn’t tell him,” she said.

  “You never told him you were a witch?” I asked, surprised. How could you be married to someone and keep that kind of secret from them?

  “I most certainly did not,” she said. “You want to know the quickest way to end a marriage? Tell a man you’re a witch, and see how long he sticks around.”

  I was upset. “But if someone loves you—”

  “People can love you without knowing the full truth about you,” she said. “How do you think spies get married? Many of them have perfectly fulfilling family lives. That doesn’t mean their families know their business trips consist of going overseas, putting on wigs, and assassinating heads of state. Some things people are just better off not knowing.”

  “It’s for their own good,” said Minerva reassuringly, daintily picking up a chicken leg. “It’s really safer for them that way. Otherwise, they’d want you to play the stock market or tell you to cure world hunger. They always ask for things like that. Money, and if you’re so magical, why don’t you fix the world’s problems? It’s all very predictable.”

  “Why don’t we?” I asked. “Fix the world’s problems?”

  Aurora sighed. “Raised by a man,” she said to herself. I shot her a dirty look. I was getting a little sick of all these asides about my father, who I still loved in spite of what I’d been told.

  She ignored my look. “We live in the world, we don’t exist to fix it. Meddling in the earth’s affairs throws off the balance. Practical magic is very different from magic practiced to influence the state of affairs. That’s unethical.”

  “Imagine if you did it for evil,” explained Minerva. “Doing it for good amounts to the same thing, because you’re still meddling with things in an unnatural way, rather than allowing nature to take its course.”

  “And,” added my mother, who’d been relatively quiet up to this point, “if you have any further questions, you should probably address them to us. Just to ensure you don’t procure any…misinformation.”

  Tamsin ducked her head behind her rainbow hair.

  “What happened to your dad?” I asked her. “Did he know?”

  “He found out,” Aurora said gravely. “Which was why we had to bury him in the back yard.”

  I dropped my knife on my plate. It clattered loudly against the flowered ceramic. My mother looked horrified, immediately glancing at me to gauge my reaction.

  “Mother!” Minerva admonished Aurora.

  She continued eating, as if nothing had been said. Tamsin emitted a snort of laughter and I realized then that Aurora was messing with me.

  Minerva turned back to me. “We did not bury Ivan in the backyard. Ivan didn’t know about any of this. He was an alcoholic. He’s now in a twelve-step program in Queens. From what I’ve heard, he’s remarried and doing well. And I’m happy for him.”

  “He’s nice,” said Tamsin conversationally. “I talk to him sometimes on Instagram.”

  “That’s lovely,” said my mother, smiling at her fondly.

  That’s awful, I thought, but kept it to myself. At the head of the table, my grandmother snorted into her peas. Minerva looked at her curiously.

  I was trying to think of a way to bring up my vision without causing alarm when Tamsin did it for me.

  “Sam had a vision,” she announced to the table at large.

  The reaction was varied. Minerva looked startled, then inquisitive; my mother looked concerned the way Tamsin had, but with a touch of something else—was it fear? My grandmother just sipped her tea, watching me over the rim of the mug.

  “She saw that girl, Martha Hope?” Tamsin continued. “She saw her running through the woods. Like somebody was chasing her.”

  “When did you see her?” asked Minerva. It was as if Tamsin told her I saw something on the news that they hadn’t.

  “Friday, I guess?” That was the night of my birthday.

  “The night she disappeared,” my mother murmured, eyes downcast.

  “Should I do something?” I asked the table at large. “I mean, is there anything I can do?”

  My grandmother shook her head, placing her mug on the table. “There’s nothing you can do,” she said gravely. “That girl is already dead.”

  “Dead?” I exclaimed. The fire gave a little jump along with my strong surge of emotion—denial, sorrow, disbelief. I glanced over it. I decided I would ask about that later. “How do you know?”

  “Typically, if an occurrence is powerful enough for you to have a vision, it’s not of something good,” said my mother. I thought of what Tamsin told me in her room and felt sad again, thinking of her seeing my father taking me away and being powerless to stop it.

  “So are you saying I witnessed a murder?” I asked, disturbed.

  “It’s possible.” Aurora looked out the window, studying the night sky. “That doesn’t mean there’s anything you can—or should—do about it, however.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.” I shook my head. “Then why did I see it?”

  Minerva bit her lip. She seemed like she was trying to figure out a way to explain. “Sam, you studied the Greeks at school, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, who doesn’t?” I asked.

  “We just assume you study nothing but world domination and human oppression in public school,” Tamsin put in helpfully.

  Minerva shushed her. “Do you remember what would happen when someone went to the Oracle to find out the future? And then they would use that information to try and prevent it?”

  “It would always happen anyway,” I said. “Usually because of something they did to try and stop it. Like just knowing about it made it happen. “

  “Exactly,” said Minerva.

  “I don’t think we see things in order to prevent them,” said my mother quietly. I looked at her, but her eyes were on the table again. “It’s almost as if it already happened. And what happens will be so painful that you feel it in your present. It comes back to grab you, in its past.”

  This was growing increasingly more unpleasant by the minute. I eyed the sliding glass door that led to their back deck and thought about running straight through it. While it was closed.

  “Then what’s the point?” I said, frustrated. I just couldn’t understand why I would see terrible things if there was nothing I could do about them. It didn’t make sense.

  “It’s almost like leaving the TV on in the next room,” said Aurora. “You overhear things happening on other channels. Your antenna picks it up. That doesn’t mean you want to watch it.”

  “How did you see it?” My mother looked up at me, watching me intently from across the table.

  “In the fire,” I said.

  Minerva’s eyes widened. Tamsin knocked over her glass of milk. Even Aurora looked up suddenly from her tea, the most I’d seen her react since I’d met her.

  “What?” I was an
noyed. I felt like I was at a movie in a different language with no subtitles, and all of them spoke the language but me. Every time they sighed or screamed or laughed or cried, I just wanted to know what was going on.

  “Remember how I told you most of us have, like, a thing?” said Tamsin.

  “Yeah, and?” My father’s trademark impatience was surfacing again. I tried to chew it back. “What’s my thing?”

  “Well, most of us have one thing. Like when Aunt Isadora saw stuff, she’d dream it. I see things in the fire sometimes, if I stare at the flames long enough, but my thing is with elements. They’re supposed to speak to me.”

  “Manifest in fire and flame,” murmured Aurora. “Borne of smoke and ash.”

  “What?” I was getting really pissed off now. None of what they said made any sense. “What does that mean?”

  “It could mean,” Minerva said carefully, then paused. She glanced at my mother, who was still watching me fixedly.

  “It could mean that you can do a lot of things,” my mother said. “Not just visions, but elements.”

  “And not just elements, but seeing into minds,” said my grandmother.

  Everyone turned to look at her, including me. “Just because you can hear me thinking, that doesn’t mean I can hear anybody else,” I protested.

  “She can hear you thinking?” My mother stared at me.

  Aurora raised an eyebrow at me. “And you can’t hear me?”

  “Well, sometimes, but I mean it’s like—you’re already there, you know?”

  Now the whole table was staring at me. It was like being the new kid on the first day of school and having to tell the class about myself.

  “Can’t she hear all of you, too?” I said uncertainly.

  “Sam, Aurora can’t hear us thinking,” said Tamsin. “That’s not what I meant when I told you she could see into people’s minds. She can hear normal people thinking. The ordinary ones.”

  “And we certainly can’t hear her,” my mother said slowly, as if going over something in her mind.