Copyright © 2015 FOWLER ROBERTSON
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
The characters and events in this novel are fictitious. Any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Printed in the United States of America
“For what we learn as children grows up with the soul and becomes united with it.”
~ Irenaeus Polycarp
PROLOGUE
My troubles began the night I was born. It was storming outside, lightening, hail and pouring rains. The hospital lights flickered on and off until the labor room collapsed into a steely black. I made my entrance into this world swallowing the dark in little gasps while the blackness slithered down my throat like a frantic snake. A few minutes later, the lights returned a sterile glow but it was far too late for me. The pitch had found a home. It coiled up next to my heart for refuge, a solid and firm foundation that would house many rooms, shadows and secrets, and there it would remain to keep a watchful eye. In the Hart family, this was a sign. A splendid and terrible sign.
Crackles
“Go fish!” I said smirking under my breath. I matched a set of cards and slam them down on the porch. Mag’s eyes go into small slants and her left eyebrow raises in warning. I can read my sister’s body language like a meteorologist reads the weather. Playing cards with Maggie Storm is like entering the eye of a hurricane. She gets her middle name honest, that’s for sure but she’s a sore loser at games, which is why her next move was obvious.
“I’m being smothered to death by a clown.” Mag said. She jumped up and reached between her legs and gave her shorts a yank and then twisted and twirled about the porch. Her roustabout didn’t fool me in the least. It’s simply a distraction. We both look ridiculous in patchwork, who wouldn’t, for that matter. Thanks to the mad sewing skills of grandma Dell, Mag and I stay in clown hell. I swear the woman has more quilt scraps than good sense.
“I hate these things.” Mag screamed through gritted teeth. “What’s next? Toe sacks? Rope sandals?” She yanked, tugged and twisted. “When I grow up I’m not wearing this backwoods hillbilly crap.”
“We’re redneck. It's a given. Now can we get back to the game?" I lifted a pair of cards with one hand and put an L on my forehead with the other. I spelled out my thoughts. “L—o—s—e—r.” Mag didn’t think it was funny.
“Redneck. Hillbilly. Whatever. It’s all the same.” Her arms went stiff and she huffed. She showed all the signs of a lit bottle rocket. Of course, this was prelude to a rant. And there she went, orbiting the porch, griping about the southern mentality of families, ours in particular. She conveniently leaves herself out, of course, as if she sprouted from a bean, left over in one of them toe sacks. If left to Mag’s doing, it would be a toe sack trimmed in gold and lined with rubies. I blame Maw Sue for that nonsense. Our tell-her-anything-to-shut-her-up great grandmother informed her that her namesake was from a sovereign kingship and ever since, Mag has been seeing diamonds. I was suspicious from the beginning but who was I to talk? My namesake was a combination of some sorts, as if my parents rolled the dice or flipped a quarter for heads or tails. I was a simply a compromise involving James Dean and a Willow tree. So I had my own troubles to deal with. Maw Sue said that was thing about namesakes—only the bearer could fulfill the journey.
“I’m ready to grow up and get the hell out of this God forsaken town.” Mag railed, stomped and twisted. I rolled my eyes, fiddled with the cards and watched her parade around. This was nothing new. Of course, I was the opposite of my sister. I wanted to stay right where I was. From my viewpoint, the grown-up world wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Heck, just watching Maw Sue struggle with life was enough to give me pause.
Maw Sue was four foot nine and a ball of fire. Wishy and washy. Rose petals and rusty nails. Mystical and mad. You never know what you’ll get with that woman. Her moods metered up and down like the red bubbles in a thermometer. Mag and I learned to tip toe lightly around her till we established what frame of mind she was in. She always wore one of those straight line lounge dresses pelted with an assortment of flowers and snap buttons down the front. Around her neck was a delicate gold chain, tarnished and aged with time and hanging on it was a pendant the size of a nickel. The pendant was oval shaped with edges of copper filigree and inlaid with a stone, ruby red in color with an eerie yellowish streak in the center, an eye plucked from a dragon or that’s what I saw. Maw Sue rubbed it constantly for comfort and said it soothed her weary mind. There was something about the necklace that bothered me, though I couldn’t tell you what it was. When I looked at it, it would grab my eyes and pull me into it, visually moving me, although my feet never budged. It seemed alive and alert to me at all times. The red color was so richly red it was like fresh blood pooling into the stone, so much I suspected it was connected to Maw Sue’s skin somehow, attached to her veins, surging with life, beating with each heartbeat, draining in and out. It pulsated and its wet fingers would leap outward and grab me. I was scared of it and kept my distance. Maw Sue denied my accusations as poppycock and said it was simply a necklace. We agreed to disagree.
Maw Sue was as superstitious as they come. She threw salt over her shoulders for luck. She rubbed rosemary and sage on her wrists to keep the bad mojo away. Here recently she keeps a bell on every door. That’s our fault. Mag and I would slip in unnoticed and it would scare the ever loving bejesus out of her. The next thing we know, there’s a clanging bell ringing out our entrance. She had rituals too. Strange rituals. The kind you’re not sure you want to tell anyone about, less they think you fell off the crazy train.
I spent the night with her once and fell right into it. Her house was all sorts of horrors by itself, so adding spooky rituals didn’t help matters none. Right before bedtime she told me to follow her to her bedroom. I tagged behind a little ways, walking in my bare feet, across the squeaky living room floor until I saw shadows on the wall that wasn’t mine, nor hers, and then my feet could barely keep up with each other. My mind filled with dark thoughts as it was prone to do. I caught up and latched onto the daisies on her skirt, while I eye squinted. She dragged me into the dark of her room. The door closed behind us and I nearly hit the ceiling. I couldn’t see a thing in the pitch of dark. I expected her to turn on a light but she just sat on her mattress, while her boney hands grabbed me and even though I knew it was her, it scared me nonetheless. It got so dark, the dark turned a blue, a deeper than deep sort of blue, like the depths of the ocean blue where lurking in the darkness, are creatures no man has ever seen nor would want to see. In my mind, I was convinced that no man could enter the depths of deep blue black without turning dark himself. It was the chameleon of nature, light turns to light, and dark turns to dark. We sat and sat and sat. My eyes rolled around like marbles in a deep well. I could hear my heart thrashing in my ears and a slight whistle coming from my nose. Suddenly, I hear chatter and weird sounds break the air and then I realize it’s coming from Maw Sue. She’s chanting or praying, I can’t make sense of it. She squeezes my hand. My gut locks up. I inhale deep breathes to keep from hyperventilating. Has Maw Sue gone coo-coo? Over the top? Folks say she’s a bit eccentric but that’s what I love about her but now I have to wonder. I hear scrapes of long, dreadful fingernails. My heart leaps. I cling to Maw Sue. More scrapes. Th
e room lights up to an amber glow when Maw Sue lights a small candle. I sink back to my normal scaredy-cat self. It wasn’t fingernails, only the strike of a match. I could smell the after burn of the sulfur. The candle cast a crew of leaping shadows on the wall, as if people were people going about their lives, all around us but we could only see them through shadows. I snuggled a little closer to Maw Sue. She holds the candle and rubs that stupid red stone around her neck. All I can do is rub my forefinger against my thumb.
“Willodean” she says, “Are you afraid of the dark?” I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe. Of course I was afraid of the dark. I’m afraid of this house, afraid of my mind, afraid of the thoughts that enter it, afraid of that stupid red stone, afraid of what I see and what I don’t see. I would say, yes…I’m afraid of most everything. But instead of saying it out loud, I just mumble something lame and stupid.
“Uh-huh.”
“Well.” Maw Sue paused and gazed at the shadows leaping. “You shouldn’t be. You want to know why?”
“Yes.” I lied. I didn’t want to know the answer. Not really. I was always afraid of the answers, like it wasn’t going to be what I expected.
“Because it is the lesser light” she says staring into the candle. “God made two great lights—the greater light of the sun to govern the day and the lesser light of the moon to govern the night. So if there both lights, then what is there to be afraid of?” I could think of plenty. My mind was an abattoir of dark things.
“I used to fear the dark, among other things…” She paused and looked past the walls of leaping things as if she saw something else in another dimension.
“My mother told me the same thing and I’ve never forgotten. That’s why I face the darkness every night before I go to bed. I sit here and I face it, eye to eye, dark to dark because I know it’s only a lesser light. Does that make sense Willodean?”
I wasn’t for sure but I nodded anyway. She blew out the candle and tucked me into bed. Of course, I had a lot of trouble falling asleep, my mind full of the terrible awful. I wasn’t like Maw Sue. I could not face the darkness. It was already in me, bedded up in my bones and I couldn’t shake it if I wanted to. Who cares about facing it when it’s living inside, already? I simply preferred to let it be. I’d be fine by that.
Despite Maw Sue’s strange rituals and eccentricity, she was a great storyteller.
“Now Willodean and Maggie,” she’d say, “It’s very important to live out your namesake. Be who you were created to be.” Her breathe smelled like dripping pomegranates, a promise of a sweet fruit in our future. “But beware of the Amodgians because they will take what is rightfully yours” and then it would turn sour like the bitter bite of a crabapple. I could have lived without this part of the story. She’d get dramatic and point out invisible phantoms called Amodgian’s. I didn’t want to see them, but I couldn’t help but see them. It was different each time as if they disguised themselves to fool me, subtle glints out of the corner of my eyes, a streak of shadows here and there, and then gone. Tricks of the mind. Their presence was like the boogeyman of my nightmares lingering into my days, seconds and minutes.
“They will try to steal what is yours. Be aware children.” Maw Sue’s eyes turned dark and dreadful. “Fight for your life. Your namesake. It is your ancestral birthright to fulfill your destiny.”
At this point in the story, Mag would cut her eyes at me suspicious. She was capable of thinking what everyone else in the family thought about Maw Sue to begin with. That she had overdosed on herbal concoctions, sleeping pills and hallucinated a wild story.
“That’s just poppycock. Ridiculous. Ain’t no such thing.” She’d say. Mag didn’t care one iota about birthrights, she just hoped her destiny contained designer shoes, handbags and a plane ticket out of this town and she’d be happy as a lark.
“Girls, no matter what happens in this life, you must fight. Find your way.”
“Uh-huh.” I nodded and believed every word. She rubbed the stone till I saw the eye bleed and drip wet and run down her neck.
“Don’t let the enemy win. You are a Cupitor. You come from the blood of seekers. Use your gifts. And most important—make lovely your losses.”
And there it was. Four words that broke my ever loving southern sap heart. Their unknown meaning crushed my heart with a heavy burden. Anytime I asked her exactly what it meant, she’d tell me I had to live life to find out and I had plenty of time to do that. Regardless, it didn’t stop the words from penetrating my heart time and time again, like sticky old wallpaper, as if someone snatched a top corner and yanked it down, exposing my heart and no matter how much got peeled off—it left behind a gruesome layer of pain. Make lovely your losses. I feared a great weeping loss was always at my back and lived on the verge of anxiousness, waiting to lose something—but what? I was all up in my head when I heard Mag yell.
“Can’t the Amodgians just steal our shorts instead?” She stood up and modeled like a silly spoiled brat. “They can have these hillbilly britches.” We all busted out laughing.
“Now you know Dell made those shorts for you out of love.” Maw Sue said.
“Well, it certainly wasn’t for the fashion.” I snickered but it was true. If given a choice, I’d set fire to them a long time ago. It still didn’t stop Mag and I from cringing every time we heard the old sewing machine threading down like a drum beat of warning, thump, thump, thump, on some poor unsuspecting fabric. We knew in a few restless hours, we’d be the eyesore of the neighborhood.
“Hey girls, look what I made for you.” Dell would smile like a jackal and hold up two pair of God forsaken scrap shorts, splattered with every color of the rainbow and hell. I tried to persuade Dell to more charitable works, informing her of the five kids who lived down the street, river trash, starving and half naked. She ignored my poverty facts and kept on sewing despair. The pair I have on today is from James Brown’s closet. One side is half black and white polka dots, the other half is purple with dizzy, yellow swirls while a plumage of pink flowers sprout from my crotch. Jesus! And the back side? It’s a runway strip for racecars with wide black stripes interlaced with slim yellow lines. Mag’s shorts are another sight altogether. 4th of July meets Woodstock and had a baby. Stars, stripes and tie dyed heaven. When she wears them, I rib her to no end. I feel it’s my patriotic duty to stand up and salute her sorry can’t lose a game with a rock n’ roll rendition of The Star Spangled Banner in true-blue Jimmy Hendrix style. I strum my invisible air guitar, ripping out rifts that curl the tree leaves, while my hum of musical chords scatters the tree limbs of small birds. The twang of the last chord held out its note, eeeeeeeeeeinggggggggggggg and echoed across the porch, ending in a loud barraaaannnngggg! And then I threw out a few hand salutes for good measure.
Evidently, royal bloodlines lack a royal sense of humor. A dark cloud with slanted eyes emerged and it was the war of the states all over again. Sister against sister, royalty against rebel. Maggie Storm retaliated against me—and America. Traitor! Her fingers were like crab claws. A huge red whelp rose up on my arm and I went to squirming. I realized I would need to seek revenge creatively from this point on.
“Hoo-hah.” I said in triumph slamming down the cards. “One-two-three.” Mag’s weakness became my trump card. “Take—that—sister-sue!”
In reality, Mag can’t lose. Not at cards, hopscotch, Red Rover, dodge ball, Chinese checkers, old maid—life. Queen Mag did not get the game player gene, she did however, get the over-reactor gene and plays it to the hilt. Since she can’t face losing, less she die or something, she creates a distraction, and not just once or twice, but every single game. I saw it with my naked eye. Well, kinda. We had just finished a game of checkers and against my better judgment, I let her win but only because I was tired of being pinched. Later on, we started a game of cards. I was ahead by three and had no plans of letting her win. Unfortunately, I had not considered the four glasses of water I drank which engulfed my full bladder. I had to go pee but be
fore I left, I threatened Mag not to cheat. She hem-hawed around but finally agreed. I was pretty sure her toes were crossed because it was just too easy. When I returned—for the one hundredth and fifty seventh time—disaster.
“Act of God.” She said all innocent and fragile. Act of God, my foot. Cards are strewn all over the porch, down the steps and across the yard. Checkers are littered on the grass and the board is hanging limp in the cleft of a sycamore tree.
“Really Mag?” I said. My hands on both hips disgusted. She just twiddled her thumbs and looked at me all innocent like. The more I interrogated her, the more elaborate the Act of God.
“It’s my namesake.” She says trying to explain. The story is, somehow, out of nowhere, a massive wind swept across the porch and disbanded from its swirling vortex a mob of ugly, hairy, big nosed trolls who tied Mag to the porch post, and then proceeded to ransack the game like a bunch of Viking savages. Mag was as shocked as I was or that’s the way she played it off. I stared at her in awe, not that it was unbelievable but because Mag only used her strange imagination when it was to her benefit. Supposedly, before they left, all thirty of them licked her on the cheek with their crusty inflamed troll tongues.
“Really Mag, a mob of trolls?”
“Yep.” She said. “And they were horrific. Smelled bad too.”
Mag finally stopped her rant and continued our card game and this time I was prepared. Come what may.
“I thought you had to go to the bathroom?” Mag says jittery and nervous.
“Nope.” My bladder was empty. Trolls or not, I wasn’t leaving. Mag is hesitant and her shoulders see-saw up and down. I’m cautious because I know better than to underestimate her. Just when she has a look of defeat—she’ll swell up and flip your world upside down. And right on time, she does. The goddess of the south did what she does best—with or without my weak bladder. She caused a distraction. The player was about to get played. My weakness—became Mag’s trump card.
WILLODEAN (THE CUPITOR CHRONICLES Book 1) Page 1
