by Nic Saint
“Dear Lord,” she croaked softly as she glanced at the face of Christ, contorted in agony, blood dripping down his brow. “I was just affronted by a bunch of little pests. Please do whatever it takes to teach them a lesson in common decency and respect. Please make them break out in hives covering their entire bodies. And make sure there’s a lot of pus and pain involved. And make sure to put the fear of God in their hearts. Thank you.”
She bowed her head demurely and launched into her usual Our Fathers and Hail Marys for the day. And she’d just launched into her fifth Our Father when a sudden creaking sound had her look up in alarm. She stared at the giant cross for a moment. Was it just her imagination, or was Jesus swaying to and fro? She squeezed her eyes closed for a second, then opened them again. No, there was definitely something funky going on with the savior today. It was almost as if he was looking straight at her, fixing her with an incandescent eye.
She tried to suppress a sudden shiver. “Jesus?” she asked shakily. “What’s happening?”
And then Jesus spoke! In a hollow voice, as if straight from the tomb.
“Leann Peach! You’ve been a terrible pest all of your life! Your sins are so numerous I can’t even begin to recount them all.”
“But—but—but that’s not true!” she cried, quaking desperately.
“Do you deny that you’ve pestered your neighbors, talked smack behind their backs, sent a woman to her death and cheated your sister out of her inheritance?”
“Lies!” she cried feebly. “All lies!”
“You will pay for your sins, sinner. And you will pay dearly!”
And with an agonized cry she watched as suddenly Jesus streaked down upon her, and then she was struck down, smote by his wrath.
Chapter One
I opened one tentative eye to see what all the fuss was about. There was movement all around, and noise, and people screaming. Had World War III finally broken out? Had an earthquake struck Haymill? Was the house on fire? What? Something was going on, that was for sure.
I opened the second eye, and almost cried out in surprise when I saw that a small boy sat staring at me, studying me as if I was a bug.
“Barnum!” I cried. “What the hell?!”
“I thought you were dead,” he said, and he sounded disappointed.
“I was sleeping.”
“You looked dead.” He took a whiff. “And you smell dead, too.”
Nice. “Thanks. Aren’t you just a peach?”
“No, I’m a boy,” he said earnestly. “Not a peach.”
I pushed myself up on my elbows. “What are you doing here?”
He shrugged. “I dunno. Father Reilly kicked me out of his room, Auntie Cassie kicked me out of the kitchen, and my brothers kicked me out of their room. So I just figured I’d go explorin’.”
“Well, I’m going to kick you out of my room, too, so you better go explorin’ someplace else.”
“Are you sure you aren’t dead?”
“Yes, I’m sure. So beat it, buster.”
He heaved a deep and dramatic sigh. “This place sucks.”
“Why don’t you go play outside?”
“Auntie Cassie kicked me out of the garden, on account of the fact that I destroyed her flowers.”
“Why did you destroy her flowers?”
“I didn’t. I was digging a trench.”
“A trench? Why?”
He gave me a look that spoke volumes about his estimation of my intellectual capacity, and said, “Because the Germans are coming—duh.”
“Oh, right.” We’d all watched War Horse together last night. The movie must have made an impression on my cousin. I could imagine my grandmother wouldn’t be too happy about his sudden desire to dig trenches in her rose beds, though. Gran is crazy about her flowers, and if anyone so much as dares to point a finger at them, she goes ballistic.
“Why don’t you keep your brothers company?” I asked.
“But they don’t want me!”
“Then why don’t you keep your cousins company?”
He gave me a suspicious look. “Is that a trick question?”
“Why?”
“Cause you are my cousin, and you just told me to beat it.”
“I meant your other cousins.”
“They kicked me out, too,” he said with another sigh. “Estrella wasn’t happy when I told her she sings worse than my cat, and Ernestine kicked me out after I cut up her books.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You cut up her books?”
“I was making paper soldiers.”
I was afraid to ask why, but I did it anyway.
“Duh. To help me defeat the Germans, of course. We’re going to need all the soldiers we can get, Edie.”
“Of course,” I said, patting him on the head. “I knew you were too young to watch War Horse. I told your brothers but they wouldn’t listen.”
He swiped my hand away. “I’m not too young. I’m six!”
“So you are. Now shoo.”
I ushered the little pest from my room and rubbed my eyes. Another day in paradise. And to know that Safflower House used to be such a peaceful place. But that was before Gran had decided to take in paying guests, and before my three cousins had arrived. Bancroft wanted to catch a show on Broadway, Busby had tickets for some bodybuilding competition he wanted to see, and Barnum… well, Barnum just came along for the ride, presumably because nobody else wanted him.
My name is Edelie Flummox, by the way, and Safflower House is the home where I live with my two sisters Estrella and Ernestine and my grandmother Cassandra. Located in the Haymill neighborhood in Brooklyn, I’ve lived here all my life, and so have my sisters. At least since our folks died, which happened such a long time ago I don’t even remember them.
I opened my closet door and checked my face in the mirror attached to the back of the door. I had a bad case of bed hair. My red mane looked like a Mohican, my round face was pasty and covered with sleep marks, and my green eyes were all gunked up. Gah. No wonder Barnum thought I was dead.
Too bad we don’t have en-suite bathrooms in our rooms. In spite of the fact that Gran has turned this place into one of those Airbnb places, she only had the third floor redone. My sisters and I still have to share a bathroom. So I squeezed myself into my jeans, pulled a black sweater over my head and slunk out of my room. Used to be that we could all prance around in our underwear for breakfast, but those days are gone. And since our most recent guest is an actual Roman Catholic priest, I’d rather not tempt him. I don’t know much about priests, but it is my understanding that women are still an alien species to most of them. And I may look like something the cat dragged in, but as far as I can tell I’m still a woman.
I yawned and shambled over to my sister’s room. I entered without knocking. “Strel? Are you awake?”
Estrella and Ernestine looked up. They were both sitting on Strel’s bed and looked as if they were in conference.
“What are you guys doing?” I asked as I stumbled over and dropped down on the bed, immediately closing my eyes again.
“We’re in an emergency meeting,” Strel said. She’s the pretty one. Whereas I look like a female Shrek, she’s blond, blue-eyed and gorgeous.
“What’s the emergency?” I asked. She gave me a poke and I groaned, snuggling into her pillow. “What?”
“What’s the emergency? Really? Where have you been for the last week?”
“Um… trying to get some sleep?”
“Exactly! This place has turned into a hellhole and we haven’t even been consulted!”
“I think hellhole might be a strong word,” Ernestine said, always a stickler for le mot juste. She’s the intellectual in the family, and looks the part with her narrow, pale face, thin lips and overly large glasses.
“Hellhole is the right word,” said Estrella, getting fired up. “Ever since Gran started this Airbnb business this place hasn’t been the same. It’s like we’re strangers in our own home!”
“I
think Father Reilly is nice,” I said, speaking into Strel’s pillow. I could have used a few more hours of sleep.
“It’s not Father Reilly,” said Strel. “It’s the general principle of the thing.” I glanced at her and saw she was flapping her arms like a chicken, usually a sign she was upset. “I can’t even walk around the garden in my bikini anymore!”
“Why would you want to walk around in your bikini?” I asked. “It’s seventy degrees out.”
“I don’t want to walk around in my bikini—but if I wanted to, I couldn’t!”
“I don’t see the problem,” I muttered, and almost drifted off to sleep again. But that was before Strel pulled my hair. “Ouch! What did you have to do that for?”
“To get your attention! Don’t tell me that this endless parade of guests doesn’t bother you.”
“It doesn’t bother me,” I said, checking my hair for a bald spot.
“Well, it bothers me. And Stien.”
“I’m fine with Father Reilly,” said Stien.
“Yeah, and I think it’s good to have a priest in the house,” I said. “It’s good for our karma or something.”
“The Catholic Church isn’t into karma,” said Stien. “That’s more a Hinduism concept.”
“Whatever,” I muttered, dunking my head back into Strel’s pillow.
Strel groaned. “It’s not about Father Reilly! I like Father Reilly too!”
“I’m sure he won’t mind you prancing around in your bikini, Strel,” I said, my voice sounding muffled through the pillow. “Maybe he’ll even like it.”
“It’s not about my bikini!” she cried, hitting the pillow with her fists and making me sit up.
“So what is it about?”
“This is our home! And now it’s not ours anymore!”
“Yeah, and it’s not as if Gran needs the money,” said Ernestine. “She doesn’t.”
She was right about that. Gran used to run a small franchise of flower shops, and when she sold them to a national chain, she pretty much cleaned up.
“I think she does it because she likes it,” I said. “She likes the company.”
“She’s got us,” said Strel. “Aren’t we enough company for her?”
“She told me she did it because she felt she needed to give something back to the community by opening her house,” said Stien. “She felt the house was too big for just one family and she wanted to share it with others.”
“She told me the same thing,” said Strel, “and I don’t believe her. I think she’s doing it to punish us. Same way she took away our powers.”
Oh, didn’t I mention this before? Yes, Estrella, Ernestine and I are witches. And so is our grandmother. Though to be honest we’re not very good at it. Our spells have a habit of backfiring big time. Which is why Gran has forbidden us from ever using magic again. She’s wiped all the spells we ever mastered from our minds and has taken away our powers. Not very nice of her, but if you know that we once almost flattened the White House and all of its inhabitants, you can understand where she’s coming from.
“She turned Fallon Safflower’s attic into a guest room, locked up all of Fallon’s artifacts, and even Fallon’s Book of Secrets! It’s clear she wants to erase all traces of magic from Safflower House, and from our minds.”
“Strel has a point, Edie,” said Ernestine. “It does look like Gran wants to erase our entire witchy heritage. To make sure we never perform witchcraft ever again.”
I shrugged. “So? Maybe she’s right. We did mess up one time too many.”
“We were improving,” Strel said. “The last time we used witchcraft we even managed to raise a boat from the depths of the Atlantic Ocean.”
“And wake up a bunch of nasty ghouls in the process,” I reminded her.
“Maybe Edie is right, Strel,” said Ernestine. “Witchcraft only ever brought us trouble. Maybe we’re better without it.”
“I loved being a witch,” said Strel stubbornly. “I could straighten my hair without having to use a straightener. I could disentangle my earphones. I could do lots of useful stuff. And now I can’t!”
“Yeah, and I could always find my glasses,” said Ernestine wistfully as she took them off to polish them with the hem of her shirt. “Or put all my books back on the shelves without having to pick them up and do it myself.”
“You used to make your Barbies dance, remember?” I asked Strel.
She smiled at the recollection. “Yeah. That was fun. So what right does Gran have to take our powers away? We’re witches. It’s our heritage, our birthright. We inherited our powers from our mother, and Gran, and up and up along the family tree all the way back to Fallon Safflower herself, one of the most powerful witches who ever lived. It’s just not fair.”
I heaved a deep sigh. We’d had this discussion so many times already I was frankly getting tired of it. “On the plus side, we haven’t had any demons trying to destroy us, or warlocks or monsters. So there’s that.”
It was one other reason Gran had banished magic from Safflower House. Constantly having to battle the spawn of Satan was starting to get a little old.
“Edie is right, Strel,” said Ernestine. “Life has become very peaceful.”
“Very boring, you mean,” said Strel. “Just a bunch of annoying guests, and a tedious nine-to-five job at Floret & Bloom. This isn’t the life I signed up for.”
“You didn’t sign up for any life,” I pointed out. “Babies can’t write.”
“You know what I mean,” she said.
“I like the flower shop,” I said.
“Me, too,” said Ernestine. “It’s… nice.”
“It’s Gran’s dream job, not ours!” Strel exclaimed.
Well, she had a point, of course. All my life I wanted to be a pastry chef. Unfortunately I was never a very good one. Same thing with my sisters. Estrella’s dream had always been to become the next Céline or Mariah. But she couldn’t carry a tune no matter how hard she tried. And Ernestine wanted to become a lawyer like Ben Matlock or Perry Mason but hadn’t even managed to get past her first year in college. And when we had tried to make witchcraft our profession, things had backfired even more spectacularly. So finally Gran had decided to start another flower shop, and had hired us as her employees.
“Well, we’re stuck with it,” I said, stifling another yawn. “So no point complaining.”
“You’re stuck with it,” said Strel. “I’m going to be a singer.”
“Oh, that’s right,” said Ernestine. “How is the gig going?”
“Gig? What gig?” I asked.
“Strel landed herself a gig at The Luinness.”
“The Irish pub? Hey, that’s great.”
“Thanks,” said Strel with a proud smile. “My first gig is tomorrow. You’re all invited. But don’t tell Gran. I’m sure she’ll have something to say about it.”
“What? You’re crazy,” I said. “Gran is your biggest fan!”
“Yeah, that’s why she took away my powers,” said Strel. “No, she’s not coming and that’s my final word.”
“She’s going to find out anyway, Strel,” said Ernestine. “She always does.”
“Even better. She’ll know I didn’t invite her, and then she’ll know how I feel about her squandering our heritage.”
“Girls!” suddenly a loud voice sounded. “Breakfast!”
We looked around. The voice had sounded from nearby, which was impossible as Gran was in the kitchen preparing breakfast for us and our guests. Maybe she had magically enhanced her voice? Gran knew a lot of tricks.
“Do you think she heard us?” Ernestine whispered, eyes wide.
I nodded. “You bet.”
“Good!” said Estrella, jumping from the bed. “I don’t care if she knows how I feel about her.”
“Better behave, Strel,” I said as we left the room. “Remember that one time she took your voice away?”
“Yeah, when you’d been nagging her too much,” said Ernestine.
Estrella suddenly looked a little nervous. “She wouldn’t.”
“Oh, yes, she would.”
“If she does, I’ll… I’ll…”
“You’ll do what?” I asked.
“I don’t know, but I’ll do something!” she concluded lamely.
Chapter Two
After a brief sojourn in the bathroom, I arrived downstairs to find Gran cooking up a storm. The kitchen smelled like scrambled eggs, sausages and toast. Gran, her platinum hair tucked beneath a head scarf and an apron strapped to her waist, stood behind the stove as she stirred the eggs. “Strel, pour Father Reilly a cup of coffee. Stien, set the table. Edie, tell Barnum to get his hands off my flower beds or I’m shipping him right back to Long Island.”
Dutifully, I went out the kitchen door. Sure enough, Barnum was digging a hole in one of Gran’s precious flower beds.
I crouched down next to him. “What did Auntie Cassie tell you about digging in the garden, Barnum?” I asked.
“But I’m doing it for her,” he insisted, scooping up a nice pile of dirt with Gran’s hand shovel and dumping it right on top of a nice red bloom. “I’m doing this for all you guys. When the Germans come we have to hide. They’ll have mortars and machine guns and, and, and all of that stuff!”
“Don’t you think Auntie Cassie can defend us against the Germans?”
“Of course not. Auntie Cassie needs a strong man like me,” he said, deftly scooping up another load. Then he caught sight of an earthworm and dropped the shovel.
“Strong man or not, it’s time for breakfast,” I told him. “So you better wash up and get inside before Gran comes for you.”
“Is it true that if you eat a worm it wriggles around in your guts?” he asked, his big defense project against the German invasion long forgotten.
“I’m sure it does. And before you know it, you turn into a worm yourself.”
“Cool!”
I shook my head as I returned indoors. Gran’s blooms were safe. For now.
Strel was pouring coffee darting angry looks at Gran from time to time, and clearing her throat to check if she still had her voice. Gran pretended not to notice. Just then, Father Reilly came down for breakfast. He was a spreading man in his late sixties with a kindly, florid face, only a few strands of white hair left on his head and wire-rimmed spectacles giving him the aura of an elderly Harry Potter.
