Spells for the Dead

by Faith Hunter

  Beside me, Esther gasped. “You’un feel that?” she whispered.

  “Yes,” I said. “You see anything?”

  “A meadow full of tall grass. And one tree smack in the middle of it. Kinda looks like a live oak from the shape, but its leaves are paler, softer, and shaped like maple—” Esther inhaled fast. “It’s like my leaves. Is this my tree?”

  “It could be. We have to claim the land, and claim anything we grow on the land. We’re plant-people. Our true home is the land and the trees that grow on it.”

  “I like it. It’s pretty. It’s growing flowers in big white bunches.”

  “Mud?” I asked.

  “I don’t see nothin’ but a green horse. It . . . Ohhh. It put its head against my hand.”

  In my own vision, the Green Knight stepped back and looked at his blood-coated palms, shocking scarlet with blood. He bowed his head.

  The horse stepped back, tail switching. A scarlet handprint marked his face, where a blaze might have gone. Mud gasped, “I got me a tree horse.”

  “Okay. On three,” I said. “One, two, three.”

  We removed our hands. Opened our eyes.

  “That right there was amazing,” Esther murmured, her eyes lit with wild joy. “Okay. Let’s go claim my patch of land.”

  We rode down the hill in John’s old truck and sat on the small grassy area where the house would go, a ways away from the raw dirt of the septic system and downhill of the well. Esther pricked her skin again and placed her hands on the ground, mingling her blood with the earth. A small vine unfurled and twisted from the ground and around Esther’s wrist. Her eyes closed in ecstasy.

  Mud and I watched as thin vines crawled over her hands, encasing them like gloves. And over her belly, touching her gently. Esther claimed the land and it claimed her.

  * * *

  * * *

  The next morning I rocked back and forth on the porch swing, one toe controlling the movement, watching as Sam and the churchmen in his faction, including my daddy, discussed which trees to take first. They were gathered on the Vaughn farm’s downhill side of the road, visible from this vantage. There were a lot of shouted instructions and disagreements about where to drop the trees on the slanted road. There was even more fussing and discussing about how to get the cut logs onto the logging truck, to the construction site where they would be rough shaped, and then under the temporary shelter waiting for them. Further discussion followed about how long the logs would need to cure before they could be used for construction.

  I had received the Vaughns’ wildly enthusiastic permission to thin the vampire trees that had encroached on their farm, despite Brother Vaughn’s antipathy to me personally. The tree, the creation of which had, thankfully, not been attributed to me, had a reputation on church lands as a devil tree. It was a well-deserved reputation, the tree having killed a rooster, a puppy, a full-grown dog, and a cat, as well as numerous squirrels. And a man, though no one had mentioned that in my hearing.

  “Men take forever to do anything,” Esther commented from the rocking chair near the door. Her hands were scratching lazy circles on her rounded belly, her housedress stretched tightly across her. “If women were doing this, all that other stuff woulda been decided long afore we got here and we’da started cutting two hours past.”

  I smiled, watching the arm waving, foot stomping, and general air of disagreeable excitement among the men. “That’s true. But they’re having fun. Look at Daddy.” Old Man Nicholson, as Daddy had begun to be called since he’d been shot and the subsequent surgeries, was perched in a lawn chair. He had one leg propped on a stump and was contributing to the conversation with much cane brandishing and general gesticulation.

  Esther slid her hands to her lower spine and pushed, her eyes pensive, not meeting mine. “You’un sure that wasn’t witchcraft, what we done last night? Pricking my finger and bleeding all over tarnation felt a lot like devil stuff.”

  “It wasn’t witchcraft,” I said placidly. “No witch circle, no spells. It was just sharing your blood-scent with the tree, so it would agree to become your house.”

  “Tree smelling my blood. Strange things you do, Nellie. Humph.” The sound was a lot like Mama’s and my smile grew. Mama was planning her next grandbaby. To make sure there would be no baby-killings should Esther’s child be born with leaves, Mama had hired an outside midwife to be on-site when Esther went into labor.

  “Get away from me, dog,’’ Esther grouched, nudging Cherry with a toe. The springer had become overly protective this morning, when Esther had hard contractions and the baby started kicking in seeming retaliation. I stopped the swing and patted the seat beside me. Cherry whined but leaped obediently up beside me and lay down, her chin hanging off the seat, her eyes on my sister’s belly.

  Out front, the logging trailer had been leveled, the crane that lifted the logs to the trailer was in place, and the lumbermen secured goggles to protect their eyes. The roar of multiple chain saws commenced. Cherry whined louder and shoved her nose under my hand; I covered her ears. Sam had tied plastic ribbons around each tree to be taken: the four biggest were tied with blue, to be shaped and used as the floor girders. The red ones were the next size up, to be left whole and round for the outer walls. The odd-sized ones were to be cut into boards for inner walls, window casings, door casings, and such.

  That is, if the blasted tree allowed the men to cut them without a fight and if the men didn’t run scared when the cut wood bled red. I had warned them about that, insinuating that the vampire tree was a new, fast-growing, invasive tree and they needed to get out in front of the infestation and find a use for it before it took over the world. Having seen all the invasive plants and animals from Asia and South America, they were in complete agreement about tree culling, but I had a feeling they thought I was joking about the bloody sap.

  The chain saws bit in. I half expected that the vampire tree would grow vines and attack the lumbermen, but the trees—tree?—stayed quiescent. Blood sprayed everywhere. The chain saws went silent. The roar died away and a peculiar quiet settled. A crow cawed, the repetitive sound like insulting laughter. The men looked at the mess on their clothes and their skin.

  Sam called out, “Nellie, will this stuff stain?”

  I thought about the few times I had broken off a leaf or a thorn. “Shouldn’t,” I answered back.

  “What the tarnation is this stuff?” Ben Aden yelled. “Begging your pardon, ladies,” he added for church-cussing.

  I pushed off with my toe and called back, “Because its sap is red, the tree’s called a Bloody Nickelodeon.”

  Sam gave a quick start and barked a laugh at the Nicholson reference.

  “It ain’t poison, is it?” Ben asked.

  “Nope,” I called. “So get to work, boys.”

  The men with the saws shook their heads at the vagaries of women and restarted the chain saws. Trees began to fall.

  By midafternoon, they had cut enough wood for a twenty-eight-by-twenty-four-foot log cabin and had rough shaped the logs. By the next evening, the wood had been transported to the house site. And no one was bitten, stabbed by thorns, or eaten. I counted that as a win.

  * * *

  * * *

  The traditional rule of thumb for air-drying lumber was one year of drying time per inch of wood thickness. The vampire logs dried far faster than anyone expected. Within weeks the wood was ready for use. The dried pinkish wood had a lovely grain that didn’t need staining and a scent reminiscent of cedar. The wood chinked well and held pegs and nails perfectly. It was easy to work, it took a shine with a simple polish, and the trim took the white paint well. The shakes for the roof splintered off as if they were waiting on the ax. The house went up in record time before Thanksgiving, and a CO—certificate of occupancy—was granted. I felt as if the universe and God were finally helping out.

  At six a.m. on
the first day of the first full moon before Thanksgiving, my sister started moving in, planning to spend her first night in her own home. She was hugely pregnant, as if she might bust at any moment. Her feet were swollen, her face was swollen, and she had more leaves than I’d ever had, even when I was a tree. It was a major chore to keep her groomed. Pruned? Not that I said that. I was too busy following orders, as were Mud, Mama, Sam, Priscilla (my older true sister), Judith (a younger true sister), a half dozen half sisters and half brothers, and everyone else Esther had berated into helping. Lainie and JoJo had dropped by with a baby gift and skedaddled as fast as they could when my bossy preggers sister tried to put them to work.

  It was a long day.

  A loooong day.

  Long after dark, it was just Esther, Mud, and me. Two of us were still working, sweating in the cold of the new house with the windows open, because Esther was hot-flashing. Esther was demanding, criticizing, bossy, and so grumpy I wanted to tear my fading scarlet hair out by its curly roots.

  I made Esther’s bed to her exacting specifications, swept, mopped, dusted, and washed dishes. Mud folded clothes precisely and put them exactly where Esther wanted them. Then refolded them. Twice. I arranged Esther’s kitchen dishes where she pointed, while she sat in her rocking chair, giving orders. When the mama-to-be got hungry, I heated housewarming soup and rewashed the supper dishes. When I was done, I said, “Mud, go to the car.”

  “You’un ain’t finished,” Esther said as Mud ran out of the house like a cat with her tail on fire.

  “Oh yes we are,” I said.

  “Fine.” She gave me the Nicholson scowl and said, “This is pretty. Get on out. I need to shower off the stink and put on my nightgown.”

  I pulled the new curtains over the windows and left, locking the door behind me. Fast. Before she could change her mind.

  Through the open window, I could still hear Esther fussing, talking to herself.

  John’s old truck, which I had driven laden with Esther’s things, was now empty and it was light as a feather as it bumped back along Esther’s new driveway to the road and then up the hill to home. In blessed silence.

  We were halfway there when Mud whooshed out a breath and stated, “I ain’t never ever having no babies. They make people crazy.”

  I chuckled unwillingly. I didn’t really want to laugh at Esther, but Mud had a point.

  “And you’un—you—know what she’s gonna do, don’tcha? She’s gonna call every hour all night long, not able to sleep, keeping you awake, complaining about funny noises the house makes as it settles, complaining that werecats are hunting in her yard. And they will be, you know that, prowling in the woods, caterwauling, what with it being the full moon. There’s the cars on the side of the road,” she pointed out.

  She was right about the werecats, but I said nothing, not even correcting Mud’s grammar. I fully believed my younger sister was right and I’d have calls all night.

  But for two hours there was nothing, not a single call. Mud, the dog, the cats, and I ate popcorn, watched a Disney movie about Aladdin, and went to sleep early, our home feeling like our home again. Just ours.

  It didn’t last.

  At two a.m., Esther called my cell, in high dudgeon. “You’un get your’nself down this hill to my house right this minute,” she demanded. “You’un need to talk to the trees.”

  “The trees?”

  “Get on down here and see for your’nself.” The call ended in a huff I could feel through the airwaves.

  I shoved the cats off me, got up, dressed in jeans, boots, and a T-shirt with a sweatshirt over it. I clomped up the stairs and looked in on Mud, who was sleeping, limbs sprawled across the covers. Back down the stairs, I checked the banked coals in the stove, which were keeping the house a little too warm tonight, and cracked a few windows to let out some heat. Satisfied that the house was safe, and that I had no other legitimate reasons to dither, I stared at my PsyLED gear and debated taking my official weapon. This was a private issue, not a law enforcement one—I hoped—so I settled on John’s shotgun, loaded it with ammo big enough to take down a deer, and trudged outside.

  The night air smelled of woodsmoke, winter foliage, fresh-cut hay from somewhere, and chickens. Putting my hand to the earth, I inspected the property, discerning only creatures who belonged, including a leap of werecats off on the church boundary eating a deer they had taken down. I paid them no mind, looking for unexpected or strange things. Found none. Mud was safe, so I got in my car.

  I passed Unit Eighteen’s cars as I drove down the hill and was surprised to see FireWind’s car too. I hadn’t counted the cats, but he must be with them. That was interesting, especially as Soulwood was treating the new cat like one of the weres. I would have to pull all the info about the hunt out of Occam come morning.

  I eased down the hill, whipping the wheel into my sister’s drive. I braked, the tires grinding in the gravel, the house illuminated by headlights.

  The house was . . . different. Crazy different.

  The horizontal logs had put out roots, long, sinuous roots, trailing and draping to the ground, thickening into trunks. They were also growing up, becoming tall like saplings, and out, like living siding, with branches all sprouting leaves. Not the dark green leaves with red petioles of the vampire tree, but burgundy, five-pointed leaves, edges serrated like maple leaves, growing in pairs, one pair one way, the next pair the other, so they appeared in a round fan. The leaves on the bottom were huge; near the tops of the new trees, which were still sprouting, they were smaller. The treetops curled, rising above the roof, where they spread out, forming what looked like an unopened tulip-blossom-shaped framework. A roof of living wood.

  Vines with the same leaf positioning were growing all around the trim on the windows and around the doorway like decorations. Saplings had sprouted around the periphery of the house. Every branch and twig was flowering bunches of pretty, tiny white flowers. Like a fairy house.

  “Oh. Dear,” I said aloud to the night.

  I parked on a gravel area where no saplings grew and got out. I left the shotgun. There was no need for it. I kept a flashlight in my glove compartment and I turned it on. The bright beam tossed images of intense illumination and deepest shadows, bouncing off the window glass.

  My sister opened the back door and waddled onto the stoop. “You’un make this here tree stop doing all this,” she demanded, pointing all around as if it was my fault. “It’s gonna bury the house and me with it.”

  “Ummm. It’s your tree, sister mine. You make it stop.”

  She stomped her foot. “I can’t—” She froze. Grabbed her belly. Looked down.

  I walked closer and directed the light at her feet. Pouring over the blossoming boards was pale green liquid. Esther’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. I reached her and took her hand. Turned off my light.

  We stood there, hand in hand, beneath the last of the night’s full moon. I let my consciousness move down, through the land, into the deeps of Soulwood. Into the intertwined roots of the tree growing here. Searching. And I found him.

  The Green Knight was fully armored, his sword drawn, a shield on his left arm. He was sitting on his paler green horse, who now had a blaze down his face in purest white, shaped like a handprint between his eyes, with a trailing wrist to his nose. The steed stomped, the vibration reaching me. He snorted, horse breath like a bellows blowing. The knight planted his halberd in the ground with a thump. Beside them was a pole flying a swallowtail pennant, centered with a dark green tree with tiny white flowers. As I watched, white flowers burst into bloom everywhere, in the grass beneath him, from the halberd’s hardened shaft, from the top of the pennant pole, from the knight’s hands.

  “I’m having a baby,” Esther whispered.

  “Yes,” I breathed, pulling myself back to her. “And the trees must have known it. I think the growth is a protec
tion and a gift.”

  “You’un gonna call Mama?”

  “I’m gonna call all the mamas, and the midwife, and Mud. And we’re gonna make tea and tell stories and sing songs, and welcome your baby into this world, right here in your magical tree house.”

  Esther nodded. “That’s good. That’s real good.” She let go of my hand, gathered up her soaked nightgown skirt, and bunched it beneath her. She waddled back inside. And called over her shoulder, “Clean up that mess, you’un hear?”

  I laughed. From the ground beneath the porch, tendrils were rising, bursting with pale green leaves and minuscule white flower buds. The vines sucked up all the fluid, and the white flowers burst open. “I think your land is taking care of any mess, sister mine.” I pulled my cell and started making calls. The first baby plant-person was about to be born.

  * * *

  * * *

  My cell rang, and Occam’s name was on the display. I stepped outside my sister’s house into the bright light of late dawn and went down the steps to the ground. I answered, saying, “Hey, cat-man.”

  “You’re on speaker to all the cats, Nell, sugar. That was amazing.” A peculiar joy sounded in his voice. “Soulwood’s practically dancin’ with joy. We take it you’re an aunt again?”

  “I am.” I closed my eyes and thought about the land beneath my bare feet, and realized that he was right. The land was singing, a warm vibration like spring and growth and all things good.

  In the background I heard Rick say, “We all sense it. Something special in the land. Even in our human forms, we still feel it.”

  “Boy or girl?” Margot asked. “And how are they?”

  “Both. We got us some twins.” I knew what she really wanted to ask and so I said, “And they’re all right as rain. And the babies have skin, not bark and leaves. They look human.”