Rowan's Responsibility

by Terri Reid

  “But that wasn’t the last of the trials in the United States,” Hazel inserted. “There was that other trial. What was his name? Ipswich?”

  Cat shook her head. “No, it was known as the Ipswich witchcraft trial, but his name was Spofford. Daniel Spofford. And he was accused of witchcraft by Lucretia Brown,” she added. Then she shook her head. “With a name like Lucretia, why would anyone believe her?”

  “They didn’t,” Rowan said. “The judge dismissed the trial.”

  Agnes nodded, pleased with her daughters. “Exactly,” she said. “But the damage had been done. The furor of witchcraft and witch trials was once again in the public eye, and those true practitioners decided that they needed to leave New England and find a place less public to practice their craft.”

  “Whitewater,” Hazel said.

  “Yes, Whitewater,” Agnes said. “The sisters were about the same age as the three of you, now that I think of it. They traveled together and set up a homestead just outside the boundaries of Whitewater. They felt, especially with the creation of the Pratt Institute of Spiritualism, they would be perhaps not welcome, but certainly safe.”

  “But they weren’t, were they?” Rowan asked.

  “No, they weren’t,” Agnes said. “But it wasn’t ignorance and prejudice this time. It was hunger for more power. Whitewater had always been considered a place of magic, from as early as 700 AD when Native American people created the effigy mounds depicting their spirit guides and the Aztalan people, who settled not far from Whitewater, built temple mounds for worship.”

  Rowan looked slowly around the table. “And they all suddenly disappeared,” she said in her creepiest voice. “And no one knows what happened to their village or their culture to this very day.”

  Cat rubbed her hands up and down her arms. “Make fun of it if you want,” she said to her sister, “but I’ve been on those mounds. That is not a happy place.”

  “So, what do old Native American hills and Whitewater have to do with the story?” Hazel asked.

  “I believe that inadvertently, the Institute, whose curriculum included psychic research, spiritual studies, and unfortunately, an all-white room on the third floor where they held weekly seances, awakened a force far greater than they realized. A force that would feed on the untrained abilities of the students and teachers. And, as soon as it got strong enough, it began to seek more powerful prey.”

  “The sisters,” Cat said.

  “Yes, the sisters,” Agnes replied. “And the whole community of witches. Most of the witches realized the danger and worked together to bind this entity. But it had become very powerful. So, the three sisters created an incantation that would hold it at bay for a period of time.”

  “And that period of time is at an end,” Cat said. “One hundred and twenty years.”

  “Okay, that’s a weird number,” Hazel said. “One hundred and twenty. Why not make it an even one hundred twenty-five?”

  Rowan put down her cup and raised her hand, waving it in the air. “Oh, I know that one,” she said.

  “Go ahead, Rowan,” Agnes said with an indulgent smile.

  “In Hebrew numerology the number 40 is a significant and holy number,” Rowan said. “You know, Moses was on Mount Sinai for forty days and forty nights, the people of Israel wandered in the wilderness for forty years, Jesus fasted for forty days. Forty has power. Since there were three sisters, they each took forty years. Three times forty equals one hundred and twenty.” She turned to her mother. “Right?”

  “Right,” her mother answered. “The spell to bind him spoke of one from three—one combined force coming from three sisters—and then, in the future when he was able to break free, three from one.”

  “But the three from one couldn’t be three from two,” Cat added. “That’s why we all needed to have different fathers, so our connection with each other comes from one source.”

  Agnes nodded. “Exactly,” she said.

  She moved her hands to the center of the table, and her daughters all placed their hands on top of hers. She slowly looked at each of them. Love, more than she could have ever thought possible, filled her heart.

  “I truly loved each of your fathers,” she said. “They were all good men, great men. They all had unique skills and power. And they were all of the Blood. And now, together, we have to face the demon that caused the death of our ancestors. We have to fight this war again, not just for us and our kind, but because the release of this kind of evil in the world today would cause it to collapse.”

  “I’m in,” Cat said. “For the children of the world.”

  “I’m in,” Rowan added. “For those unable to fight for themselves.”

  Hazel looked at her sisters and sighed. “You guys always take the good ones,” she muttered, and then she took a deep breath. “I’m in. Mostly because I’m part of this family, and I couldn’t imagine my life without all of you. And partly because if the world ends there would no longer be dark chocolate.”

  Rowan grinned. “For dark chocolate,” she cried. “Excellent cause, sis!”

  Agnes closed her eyes and shook her head. “Good Lord help us,” she whispered.

  “But tonight,” Cat asked her mother. “What did you see tonight?”

  Agnes slowly shook her head. “You know how hard it is to get a clear reading when it has to do with your own family,” she explained. “But I saw a stranger in our future. A man with knowledge that we will need. Someone very important who will be part of this journey.”

  “Is he a good witch or a bad witch?” Rowan asked in her very best Glinda the Good Witch voice.

  Agnes grinned. “He might not be a witch at all,” she said. “Just someone who will give us more information.”

  “Did you feel danger?” Hazel asked.

  Nodding, Agnes slowly met the eyes of each one of her daughters. “Yes, I did,” she said. “But I couldn’t tell if the danger came from him or if he just set things in motion.”

  Rowan sighed. “Well, I guess we’re going to find out.”

  Agnes suddenly felt a chill run down her spine at Rowan’s words. “Yes,” she agreed. “I guess we will.”

  Chapter Seven

  An owl hooted in the distance, it’s haunting cry echoing through the tall pine trees. Agnes stood at the window in the sunroom, staring out at the woods just beyond their property. She could see the moon over the trees, high in the sky, and with a change in her focus, she could see her own reflection in the window.

  Suddenly there were two faces in the reflection. She took a deep breath and turned to Cat, standing at the doorway.

  “Are you safe in here?” Cat asked.

  Agnes smiled softly and nodded. “I might have overreacted a little earlier this evening,” she admitted. “Although I don’t mind the extra protection throughout the house, I don’t think we’ll experience a full-fledged battle at our doorstep. I think it will be much subtler.”

  Watching her mother carefully, Cat walked into the room, sat on the arm of a white-cotton covered loveseat and folded her arms across her chest. “Then what’s bothering you?” she asked.

  Knowing better than to try to lie to Cat, who was able to read people better than any psychic she’d ever known, she walked over and sat on a small chair across from the loveseat. “All of my life I’ve planned for this moment,” Agnes admitted. “I was told, since I was a child, that I would be the mother of the three, that I would be responsible for giving birth to and raising the chosen daughters.”

  Cat shrugged. “I know,” she said. “We’ve kind of been raised the same way. We know what our calling is.”

  Shaking her head, Agnes reached over and took Cat’s hands in her own. “But what right do I have to ask this of you?” she questioned. “Why should an incantation that was cast over a hundred years ago have to affect the lives of my daughters? Why should you have to risk your lives for something that you had no part of? Why should your thoughts, your wishes, and your dreams be put into the formul
a?”

  “Did you love my father?” Cat asked.

  Straightening in surprise, Agnes gasped. “What? Yes! Yes, I did,” she replied quickly. “Very much.”

  “And would you have stayed with him if you hadn’t had your fate already committed to another path?”

  Thinking back at the tall, soft-spoken man, she sighed softly. “Yes, I would have stayed with him,” she said. “He was gentle and kind, even though he was powerful. He was an Obeah practitioner.”

  “Like Voodoo?” Cat asked, intrigued by this new information about her father.

  “Similar,” Agnes replied. “But Obeah men are also considered community leaders and have a great deal of influence in political matters. If we would have stayed together, I would have had to leave my home.”

  “And your destiny,” Cat said softly.

  Agnes paused and stared at her daughter, a smile on her face. “I see what you’re trying to do here,” Agnes replied with a shake of her head. “But I chose to stay here. I chose not to follow him back to Jamaica.”

  “You chose because you knew about the incantation and you knew your connection to it,” Cat said. “And we, your daughters, also choose to stay here and fight. Mom, you didn’t raise a bunch of women who sit around and wait to be told what to do. You’ve told us the story all of our lives. We chose too.”

  “Well, from Hazel’s response tonight, I didn’t do a great job telling the story,” Agnes argued.

  “Hazel knows the bottom line,” Cat said.

  “But, that’s just the thing. For you three, this is considered the bottom line,” Agnes said. “Did I ever really give you the choice to say no? Did I ever ask you if you didn’t want to live up in the woods away from the world? Did I ever…”

  “Mom, you raised three very independent, outspoken daughters,” she reminded her mother. “Have we ever been shy about speaking our minds and telling you how we felt, about anything?”

  Agnes chuckled softly. “No, I guess you haven’t,” she admitted.

  “And believe me. We would,” Cat teased. Then she stood up, leaned forward, and kissed her mom on the cheek. “Now, don’t worry about it, and get some sleep,” she advised.

  Agnes nodded. “Yes, that’s a good idea,” she said. “You get some sleep too.”

  “I will,” Cat said. She walked out of the sunroom, turning once to see that her mother was once again staring out through the window.

  “Go to bed,” she called.

  “I will,” her mother called back. “I’m just locking the window.”

  Cat made her way through the large great room to the staircase where she found both of her sisters sitting on the steps, out of the sight of their mother.

  “So, what was that all about?” Hazel asked.

  “Mom and guilt,” Cat replied, climbing up to sit next to them. “She’s worried that we didn’t have any choice in this whole ‘we-are-the-chosen-ones’ thing.”

  Rowan shrugged. “I don’t see anyone asking Thor if he had a choice,” she said. “

  Cat looked up to her sister. “This isn’t a movie,” she said.

  “Same difference,” Rowan replied easily. “Movie, comic book, or ancient Norse legend, it all comes down to the fact that sometimes you’re dealt certain cards, and you don’t get to play ‘Go Fish’ with them.”

  Hazel stretched her arms over her head and leaned back against the stairs. “How did you take my fantasy of Chris Hemsworth and in a matter of seconds turn it into Kenny Rogers?”

  Rowan grinned. “Sheer talent,” she said, and then she turned back to Cat. “So, what is she going to do?”

  “Nothing. I told her we would have let her know if we didn’t want to do this,” Cat said.

  “Well, I don’t want to do this,” Hazel remarked easily.

  Both sisters turned and stared at her. “What?” Cat asked.

  “Well, I don’t,” Hazel said. “I’d much rather be a model, making millions of dollars by posing in front of a camera and dating rich, good-looking men. But since Rowan got the height and you got the caramel-colored skin, and it seems that my only talent is taking care of goats and casting spells, I guess I’m stuck with it.”

  “It could be worse,” Rowan said.

  “How so?” Hazel asked.

  “We could live in Asia and instead of goats, you could be mucking out elephant stalls,” she replied. “Do you know how much manure a day an elephant produces?”

  Hazel smiled. “No, but I bet you do,” she said, and then she leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. “I have to admit that I’m scared. The sisters had so much confidence in us. What if we screw up? What if I screw up?”

  Cat leaned over and put her hand on her sister’s knee. “You won’t screw up,” she said. “I have confidence in you too.”

  “Are you scared?” Hazel asked.

  Cat nodded. “Yeah, I think I’d be stupid not to be a little frightened,” she said.

  “That’s okay,” Rowan said. “We can be frightened, and then we can kick ass.”

  She held out her hand. “All for one,” she said.

  The other two put their hands over hers. “And all for me,” they laughed in unison.

  Cat stood up. “Good night,” she said. “Sweet dreams. And keep your windows closed tonight, just in case.”

  “Fuzzy’s sleeping in the great room,” Hazel said. “So, even he’s a little worried.”

  “He’s probably just sensing Mom’s nerves and by the way, she told me that she thinks she might have overreacted,” Cat said. “But let’s just not take any chances.”

  “Between Mom’s nerves and Patience’s warnings,” Rowan said, “I’m glad Fuzzy’s sleeping in the great room, but with all the protections we have, I’m sure we’ll be fine. Sleep tight.”

  “Good night all,” Hazel added.

  Chapter Eight

  Henry awoke with a massive headache. That’s the first thing he realized. The second was that he was lying in a ditch in the pitch dark with the sounds of the woods all around him. He shoved his blonde hair out of his face and winced at the pain and the fact that he felt a sticky moisture on his palm.

  “Probably cracked myself a good one when I went airborne,” he sighed, then groaned as he tried to stand. “Well, shit, that hurts.”

  But he was determined to stand. Using the tree for leverage, he finally made it to his feet. He reached into his leather jacket and was amazed to discover that his phone was still intact. His vision was slightly blurry, but he was able to see that he had absolutely no bars. “And really,” he muttered as he looked down at his phone. “Who the hell would I call?”

  He slid his finger across the base of the phone and turned on the flashlight app so he could look around. “Pretty much looks like what I saw before I crashed,” he murmured, “but darker. Much, much darker.”

  He stumbled up out of the ditch and onto the road. His motorcycle lay on one side of the road, and his trailer lay on the other. Neither looked like they would be moving from the spot of their own volition. He sighed loudly and resisted the temptation to kick either the bike or the trailer. “I’d probably break my bloody foot,” he decided. “And then I’d have to limp out of here.”

  He slipped the phone into his pocket to see if he could pick up any distant, ambient light in the area. To his relief, there seemed to be a light coming through a break in the trees. He pulled out his phone and shone his light in that direction. There actually seemed to be a narrow path through the woods in that direction.

  “Do I sit here and wait for morning?” he asked himself. “Or do I walk through the woods in the middle of the night?”

  He looked around again. “Okay, point one, I am already in the middle of the woods,” he reasoned. “Point two, being on the road does not protect you from wild beasts. Point three, it’s going to get much darker before it gets lighter. Point five. No, wait, point four.”

  He shook his head and shouted out loud at the pain. “Damn, damn, damn, damn, that hurts,�
� he yelled. Then he took a deep, calming breath. “Point four, I’m so pissed off right now, I could probably scare away any wild animal. Okay, discussion over. I’m going in.”

  He walked over to his motorcycle, picked up his small traveling bag that he’d tied onto the back of the bike, slipped it over his shoulder, and made his way to the path. The light from the phone gave him illumination for about four feet in front of him, so he saw the obstacles on the ground and was able to step over them. Unfortunately, because he was so concerned about his footing, he often caught the corner of an overhead branch with his forehead, generally in the same spot his initial wound had occurred.

  “There must be a curse,” he said after he’d hit his head for a third time. “This whole Willoughby Witch thing. Anyone who tries to investigate gets his head knocked off.”

  He jumped and gasped as a raccoon stepped out into the path and was as startled by him as he was by it. The small animal darted into the underbrush and disappeared. Henry took a deep breath and then chuckled. “Well, that was a scary beast of the forest,” he said wryly, enjoying the sound of his own voice for company. “And brave Lord Henry McDermott of Alderford fought the savage beasts in the dark and dangerous American Northwoods with only an iphone and his rapier sharp wit.”

  He stepped over another fallen tree and then shined his flashlight up to see if there were any tree branches ready to waylay him.

  “Of course, his wit did nothing but disgust the beasts of the forest, and they walked away,” he continued, “shaking their heads in disgust and disappointment.”

  He lifted his phone up again and was relieved to see a white farm fence just a few yards ahead. “Thank you, Lord,” he breathed. “Civilization.”

  He hurried as quickly as his bruised and aching body would allow and climbed over the fence with ease. He could now see that the light he’d been following was an outdoor light on the back of a deck that was attached to a large home. He breathed in a sigh of relief and then froze.