The Witches Of Denmark

by Aiden James

  I said nothing more, worrying about what my most fearsome uncle was gleaning from my thoughts. Or, were his comments based on a lucky guess? It made me ultra cautious during the ride to Shady Landing, where the cabin, boat, and apparently most of our neighborhood awaited our arrival. The other kids mentioned by Adrian were Sadee’s granddaughter and her friends, along with grandkids of the Crawford’s and two nephews and a niece of Julien and Meredith’s.

  “You really need to work on blending in today,” Alisia whispered, shortly after we left Denmark’s city limits. We sat together in the very back of our fully loaded SUV. “The cabin sounds pretty fab, and Dad’s renting a dozen ski-doos, too.”

  That last part sounded pretty sweet, I must admit.

  “Okay… from this moment on, I’ve got a song in my heart and smile on my face,” I told her, offering a goofy look to go with a pained second attempt at the sterile smile from earlier. “But can you please be mindful not to think of what happened last weekend when around Mom, Grandma, and Adrian?”

  “Adrian? Why do I need to worry about him?”

  “You’ve already seen that he’s not the same warlock we knew back in the eighties,” I said, keeping my voice low. I glanced up to where he sat with Manuel, two benches in front of us, and I felt grateful for the extra space in the custom version of the Escalade model that General Motors had created for Dad last year. At the time, I thought it was frivolous. But the edict to act like normal people made having the extra bench a necessity, despite our hovering near the top end of what The Code would allow. At present, Grandma sat between her boys while Dad drove and Mom occupied her usual perch in the front passenger seat. Grandpa was catching some z’s in the seat directly in front of ours, after spending a late night finishing ‘phase one’ of his barn clean-up project…. At least I hoped he was sleeping. “Adrian has the power of Grandma’s and Mom’s sentient gifts.”

  “Seriously?” Alisia sounded surprised, and it garnered a subtle head turn from Mom in our direction.

  Great. Just frigging great.

  “Yes,” I told her, motioning with my eyes to the front of the Cadillac.

  “Oh… sorry,” said Alisia, peering over Grandpa’s bench seat to where Mom had returned her attention to the road ahead. Meanwhile, it looked like Adrian’s head was tilted slightly toward us. “I’ll be careful. Let’s talk about the ski-doos.”

  And so we did. Mainly we talked about the boat and water fun we enjoyed each summer on Lake Michigan. Our conversation lasted until we pulled up to the rental office at the Shady Landing Marina.

  “I’ll be right back, everyone,” Dad advised, once he parked in front of the office.

  “Me, too,” said Mom, getting out to join him.

  While waiting for their return, Grandma relaxed with her cherished sons, and shook her head when Grandpa’s snores caused her to look over her shoulder.

  “Did you prepare any of your Romanian masterpieces, Grandma?” I asked.

  “Not this time, sweetie,” she said, turning in her seat to better view my sister and me. “With everything going on these days, I decided to stick with traditional American fare for this time of year.”

  “Hot dogs, hamburgers, and apple pie?”

  “No, Sebastian,” she replied, chuckling. “I tried my hand at Southern fried chicken, using Sadee’s award winning recipe, and ‘all the fixins’.” She added a playful wink.

  “I bet it will be awesome!”

  Alisia’s enthusiasm stirred our grandfather from his sleep, and he sat up looking slightly confused.

  “There’s no suitable substitute for wormhole travel, is there, Father?” teased Manuel.

  “We should really discard all the unnecessary nonsense and handle things like we do in Europe,” Adrian added. “You are all far too worried about what your neighbors think of you… and yet a simple spell here and there can allow you to be who you truly are and they would all be none the wiser.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, unable to suppress my interest, despite a cautionary glance from Grandma. “I thought trying to fit in as much as possible is the key to The Code?”

  “The Code spells out how we are to appear to the rest of humankind,” said Manuel, to which Adrian nodded. “Whether we do things the exact same way, or pretend to do it and bewitch those around us to see what we want them to see, it makes no difference. Just as long as The Code is not violated.”

  “The very point I have been trying to make to your mother for the past fifty years!” Grandpa chimed in.

  “Oh, so it is okay to play with magic and then cover our deeds and misdeeds with careless spells?” Grandma was not amused, and I could feel simmering anger beneath her words. “Have you all forgotten the purges from the past two centuries? And the Nazi experiments on your cousins betrayed by King Carol in 1939? All because of such carelessness! When we bewitch someone there is no way to know if the subconscious is also being fooled. If it’s not, recognition will come… and with it follows—”

  “Okay, Mother, you made your point,” said Adrian. “Manuel and I won’t share the darker secrets with Sebastian and Alisia. But, prepare yourselves for the fact our Matei enemies will have that advantage, since Serafim and Cristian have undoubtedly begun teaching this skill to their siblings, as well as to their nephew and niece.”

  He looked at me after saying this last part. Under his penetrating gaze, I felt certain my secret encounter with the daughter of our enemy lay uncovered. Maybe Adrian was unaware of what had transpired last weekend at the movie theater, but I felt certain he felt some tie regarding Daciana and me. Perhaps it was a feeling of destiny, and that we were supposed to meet someday. Hopefully, if he didn’t know we had already met, he would merely regard it as a possible encounter in the future. Of course, that could be just as bad. If he was watching for it using his superior warlock skills, he could easily intervene to prevent any other encounters between us.

  My heart sunk, realizing my fantasies of getting a chance to know Daciana were foolhardy. I decided to try harder to forget her—to take the advice my sister had given after Serghei made it beyond clear that the Mateis would also have none of our potential budding romance.

  “Okay, we’ve got the keys to everything,” Dad announced, brimming with excitement once he and Mom returned. “We’ll check out the cabin after the picnic, in case you gals want to freshen up before we go back on the boat for the fireworks tonight. We don’t have to check out until noon tomorrow, and the cabin has a pool table.”

  “Sweet!” I said, taking my first step in forgetting about her. I was a pretty good hustler on a pool table.

  “Now, that’s the brother I know!” enthused Alisia, affectionately smacking my shoulder.

  She smiled lovingly, and I let it warm my soul and energize my spirit. Meanwhile, everyone else eyed us curiously as if wondering what was up, but were either unable to get a clear picture or didn’t care enough to try and steal a better image from inside our heads. Not that they all could do that… but even if they could, I no longer cared. All I thought about was having fun with those who loved me most, and whom I cared about above all others: my family.

  Maybe this Independence Day would bring true freedom for me. I sent a silent prayer heavenward for deliverance and lasting peace for my heart.

  * * * * *

  In retrospect, I must say that this Fourth of July celebration was among the better times I could remember. Definitely true of any summer party I’ve enjoyed since the Kennedy Administration was brought to an unexpected end in 1963. We spent the entire afternoon on the lake, with both water skis and sea-doos. Dinner under the pavilion was festive, and I had a chance to hang with Julien and Harrison, who also brought my new buddy Harris along. I think he has a thing for Alisia, and despite how things are in the south still, no one in my family would mind if Harris, or someone like him, eventually became part of the family. Race wouldn’t be a factor… whether he could be accepted to join our lengthened lifetime would be the trick.
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br />   But that’s neither here nor there at this point. Speculation is such a meaningless pastime, and a vice affecting me just the same.

  Anyway, the cabin must’ve been one of the biggest on the lake, as it comfortably slept twenty of us. The next morning we enjoyed a huge country breakfast prepared by Mom, Grandma, Alisia, Sadee, Jennifer, and Meredith. Us guys were being pampered incredibly so, and though most of the other males might expect this sort of treatment to last into the future, I have seen enough changes over the past forty years to know it will soon be a thing of the past.

  Manuel and Adrian quit the charade of acting like everyone else when it came time to go home, slipping away in their cherished wormhole. Grandpa gave the approval, perhaps thinking no one would miss them, since everyone was packing up to go home. But Harrison noticed.

  “Yeah, where’d they go?” asked Julien, shooting a knowing glance my way.

  Dad looked to be at a loss for a good answer, but had the presence of mind to shrug and pass it off nonchalantly, as did Grandpa. Good thing Julien didn’t ask me, since I was just as surprised to find they had left immediately after getting Grandpa’s blessing.

  “Oh, they’re returning the keys to one of the jet skis to the rental office,” my mother lied, but with enviable smoothness. “We will wait for their return…. But, you all can go on. We’ve got everything packed and we will see you tonight for your bluegrass band’s rehearsal on your front porch again. It will be so much fun!”

  She sold this with the right blend of neutrality and enthusiasm, which any performer will admit is the elixir that flatters the heart and mind most effectively. Harrison told us he would go ahead and get a head start on arranging for his buddies to be there around seven, and practically dragged Jennifer into their minivan with their kids not ready to leave yet. His granddaughter gave me a flirtatious look, and I offered a slight smile in response—a look I’ve got down pat after decades of practice. She’s too young now, but in a few years if we’re still here… who knows?

  The ride back to Denmark was peaceful, and I think we were all thinking the same thing: Why can’t every day be like this? As if on cue, once we were within half a mile of the downtown square, an oppressive feeling suddenly embraced the Escalade.

  “Do you feel that?” asked Alisia, worriedly.

  “Try to ignore it, sweetheart,” said Dad, looking over at Mom for confirmation. She was a statue in expression, and although her dark shades kept me from reading her eyes, I knew they were closed. She was concentrating… listening. “We’ll be home in just a couple of minutes.”

  But the feeling worsened. Enough to where Grandpa and Grandma exchanged worried glances.

  “What is it?” I finally asked, as we turned onto Chaffin’s Bend. The feeling began to wane, as if my question deflated it.

  “It’s hard to say for certain,” said Grandma, pausing to study each of us. “But I recognize the essence… it belongs to Irina. It is her anger that I feel… channeled along with malice from the others. It is good that we are now home, as the positive energy saturating the house and grounds is strong enough to push their hostility back.”

  She was right. Once we crossed Old Dominion Road, the oppressiveness fell away; leaving a pesky, barely discernible fog behind. By the time we pulled into the gravel drive leading up to the rear of our house, the welcoming feeling that we have grown familiar and dependent on since arriving from Chicago a month and a half earlier greeted us. Greeted us powerfully.

  Our refuge. Strong enough to ward off the Mateis’ evil designs for now… but would it always be that way?

  Time would tell. Probably soon… very soon.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Monday, July 6th. Day forty-eight. If only this day could’ve ended the way it began, with a truly hilarious moment.

  Regardless of how things turn out with my family and me in Denmark, Tennessee, I do believe I will always cherish the image in my head of ‘Horseshit’ Harry stumbling out our front door and scurrying home after getting the holy hell scared out of him.

  At the time, just before eleven that morning, Harris Martin was showing me the best way to clear more space between the boxwoods and the old iron fence out front. Harry’s startled cries for mercy and his “Get the hell away from me, ya goddamn demon!” drew the first snickers from Harris, and then I joined in. In truth, my initial voiced response would’ve been “What in the hell have you done now, Grandpa?!” But I clammed up with Harris standing next to me, his eyes opened wide in surprise.

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” laughed Harris, after Harry fell down the short flight of steps from the front porch, landing hard on his ass twice, and then sprinted for the side gate across from his junkyard house. “Now, there’s somethin’ you don’t see everyday—and about time for it to happen to that asshole!”

  “I probably should go check on my grandfather and make sure he’s okay,” I said, finding it hard not to laugh, too, but worried about what was going on inside the house after hearing what I assumed was Grandpa cursing in Romanian. The foyer’s fine acoustic design amplified his voice to where it clearly reached the spot we presently worked, near the front sidewalk a good forty feet away from the front door. I dropped the hedge trimmer and ran for the front door with Harris right behind me.

  “I tried to tell you, Father, that the man is a complete imbecile,” chided Manuel, who stood on the upstairs landing where he helped Grandpa remove broken wood and other debris from a tall window that faced the backyard—a window affording one of the best views from our house. “Will you at least allow me to fix the window frame and sill?”

  Grandpa nodded sullenly, and then turned his attention to me. I was halfway up the stairs and Harris stood below me at the base of the staircase. Grandpa nudged Manuel, who was murmuring a spell. He turned to face Harris.

  “I don’t suppose you can finish the travesty that used to be a tiled floor?” asked my uncle, to Harris. A broken pulley rope in the window frame began to repair itself behind Manuel. The spell was unhindered, and surely my uncle was banking on Harris not noticing. “If you can fix it, we will pay you well. We want the original floor restored, and the rest of the tile will need to be pulled up—but done so without the brute force that severely damaged a few boards over here.”

  He pointed to an area near one of the banisters. Harris nodded confidently.

  “You probably don’t know this, but my uncle, Jeremiah Martin, used to do work around here for the Clarkes,” Harris advised. “That’s how I learned this house… and I know it like the back of my hand. The only reason Mr. Clarke hired anybody other than my uncle was because he has a hard time stayin’ out of trouble. And the only time he ever hired Mr. Turner for anythin’ was when Uncle Jeremiah was in jail.”

  He looked away, as if embarrassed about his uncle, and wondering if he should have mentioned him.

  “Your uncle’s in jail now, isn’t he, son?” asked Grandpa.

  “Yes sir… he is.” Harris raised his gaze to meet my grandfather’s, and though it wasn’t obvious, I could detect the admiration in Grandpa’s solemn expression.

  “I already know that you are not like most contractors around here, and your work is very good.” Grandpa paused to survey the upstairs landing floor, which was in shambles: splintered wood—some of it plywood that needed to be removed anyway, along with soda cans and other trash left by Harry Turner, and the half-assed job of hanging protective tarp. “The job is yours if you want it. Sebastian has told us you are on the football team for the local high school, and we will work around that and anything else you have a commitment to. I believe you already understand the importance of your education, and we won’t get in the way of it…. So do you want the job?”

  “Yes sir. You won’t be disappointed,” Harris assured him, his eyes alight with excitement.

  I think we all believed the floor would be in good hands with Harris. And he was willing to do more than just repair the floor, in order to help restore the gallery to what it once
looked like more than a century ago. The only thing he advised he couldn’t do was build a newel post to match the ones at the base of the stairs. Like us, though, he couldn’t understand why the Clarkes had removed the original newel posts upstairs and replaced them with faux Corinthian columns that didn’t fit the house’s legacy or design. And, ‘Horseshit’ Harry’s final contribution to our place was a block of wood standing where a newel post should go. Harris nearly lost his balance on the stairs from a fit of laughter when Grandpa told him that our temperamental neighbor promised to hand carve a newel post from the wood block.

  “I’m sorry, y’all… but that is really funny,” Harris told us, when he regained his composure. “I seriously doubt that Mr. Turner could carve anythin’ beyond stick figures in a Neanderthal’s cave. Sorry to tell y’all that, but as you can surely tell by now, the man is a crack-head buffoon.”

  “But you can fix everything else?” asked Manuel, while Grandpa and I were still laughing at Harris’ portrayal of Harry’s quirks a moment ago.

  “Oh, yeah—most definitely,” said Harris. “And, there is a guy around here who can build you a newel post that will be every bit as gorgeous as the two down below.” He pointed to the pair guarding the base of the stairs.

  “Who, pray tell, would that be?” Grandpa asked, cynically.

  “It’s Harrison’s oldest boy, Sam Crawford,” he told him. “Dude is a master stair builder with the same artistic bent as his Pa, and I know y’all have seen what Mr. Crawford, Sr., can create. That old man’s a master, and his son is one, too!”

  Grandpa and I had seen Harrison’s amazing work at his shop, as mentioned earlier. If his son were half as talented as he was, whatever he made for us would have to be incredible. I could tell that Grandpa thought along similar lines, as the tenseness in his face relaxed.

  Surely there are those who would like to know what prompted Harry Turner’s humorous exit from our house. Unfortunately, I had to wait on those details until we finished cleaning Harry’s mess and Harris left to gather the proper tools needed to complete the job.