Aunt Dora took that as her cue to fetch a small plate and cut me a slice. I sat with it in front of me for a long moment, afraid to start eating, afraid I wouldn’t be able to stop.
“There’ll be no more talk o’ dyin’, ya here?” She brandished her knife playfully. “Not on my watch. Now eat as much as ya like. I can make more.”
I finished my slice, not bothering to pause between bites, and resisted the urge to ask for another. There were other scents in the air––potatoes, ham, and corn––and I wanted to save room for them all. I wiped my face on a napkin, then pushed away from the table.
“I was just with Michael. I’m not sure where he wandered off to.”
“Maybe he’s playin’ with the dolls in the attic?” she winked.
I laughed, imagining Michael surrounded by those frightening porcelain dolls nearly as large as he was. They had scared us as children and to this day Aunt Dora claimed that she had no idea how they had gotten there. “They’re just part o’ the house.”
When Eve’s boyfriend Paul took up residence in the attic, he hadn’t minded them either. Perhaps men were immune to their pallid faces and spooky glass eyes.
“Ready fer some tea?” My aunt asked.
“Oh, Auntie, I’ve been drinking so much tea I’m afraid I’ll float away.”
“Hogwash. There’s always room fer more tea.”
I watched as she served me, mesmerized by the long stream of amber liquid arcing over the cup. Her pour was deliberate yet graceful, the pour of a woman who had spent her life in service. Next she added in one cube of sugar, a sprig of mint, a handful of crushed herbs, and a splash of cream. After stirring the concoction three times counterclockwise with a small silver spoon, she handed it to me. I placed my hands over the cup, feeling the cool touch of bone china between my palms.
“We are witches,” she reminded me, her thick gray brow knitting across her keen small eyes. “And tea is what witches do best.”
She poured a cup for herself then sat opposite me, clenching her drink in her aged hands. Her fingers were nearly claws now in their advanced arthritic stage, but she bore the pain privately and sipped on her tea with the grace of a queen. I watched her as her steely eyes softened, then moistened, and it took me a moment to realize they were damp because of tears and not the steam rising up from her cup.
“Aunt Dora, are you okay?”
She plunked her teacup into its saucer, rattling it and startling me. “I thought we lost ya, Maggie! Never scare us like that again. Got it?”
I nodded, my mood somber. Then seeing the fear in her eyes, I added cheerfully, “I’ll do my best to stay around, but I hear I’m expensive to keep.”
She rolled her broad shoulders back. “All the good women are, but worth every penny.”
I drank my tea, surprised to find it sweet and not at all bitter. We finished, staring into our cups, neither of us knowing what to say after such a long time apart.
She broke the silence.
“I wasn’t sure what ta think o’ Michael when he first arrived. He was full o’ authority––and himself. But he’s been a blessin’ around the house, fixin’ up stuff that needs ta be fixed, and takin’ on chores like he has. And he’s been so worried about ya and the baby. Even an old hen like me couldn’t stay angry with him fer long.”
I lowered the corners of my lips. “You mean you like him, too?”
“Aye. I don’ pretend ta know what he was like when ya two were together, but he’s a good man now, Maggie Mae. And ya know how I feel about most men.”
It was true. Aunt Dora didn’t trust men, at least the straight ones. She claimed men cared only about achieving power and, with the exception of Shane and Paul, she didn’t have a kind word to say about any man until now.
There was a scuffling noise above us, in the space where my room would be, and we looked up.
“Rats?” I asked, lifting my feet and tucking them between the wooden rungs of the chair.
“Too loud fer rats,” Aunt Dora said with a shrug.
I strained my ears to listen closer but the scuffling had subsided. “Probably Merry getting my room ready.” The pungent aroma of sage wafted in, confirmation that a cleansing ritual was taking place somewhere in the house. The ritual served to purify the air, rid the space of negative beings, and bring in positive energy. Merry, the honorary priestess of our little tribe, never went anywhere without her sage sticks.
“Drink more tea, luv.” Aunt Dora nodded towards my empty cup. “It’s goin’ ta be a long night.”
We sat, making small talk about the unseasonably warm weather, the plants we’d like to grow in our garden, and what to name the baby. Aunt Dora preferred old-fashioned names like Benjamin, Ethan, and Nathaniel.
“Enduring names,” she claimed, “that won’t be worn down by time.”
At last, Michael appeared. He entered the kitchen through the back door, sniffed the air appreciatively, removed his brown leather gloves, and set them on the table. His silver ring sparkled beneath the chandelier, beckoning my annoyed glances. He kissed Aunt Dora on the cheek, nodded to me, then went to the sink and began peeling potatoes.
“See,” she whispered, her normally rustic voice as silky as a schoolgirl’s. “He’s a real dream.”
“More like a nightmare.”
I watched in quiet fascination as Michael’s hands glided across Aunt Dora’s Yukon potatoes. Instead of endearing me to him, it only furthered my mistrust. During our seven years together, Michael had considered such tasks beneath him, falling under the category of “women’s work.” He had never touched a potato, except to eat one. As far as he knew, they peeled and mashed themselves.
Aunt Dora returned her attention to me, clicking her short nails on the table. “Everything’s goin’ ta be okay, now. I promise.”
I leaned in, unable to keep up pretense any longer. “How can it be okay? Merry said you think I was cursed.”
“Aye.”
“Then it’s gone?”
“For now, yes.”
The chandelier flickered, responding to my apprehension. “Does that mean it will come back?”
“Perhaps. But we found a temporary solution. One that will see ya through the child’s birth.”
“We?”
“All will be explained later.”
Aunt Dora stood with the help of her cane and gathered up the teacups. Michael left his potato post and took them from her, and the two chattered about the proper technique for cleaning fine china.
I swallowed down my fears. If my aunt thought everything was going to be okay, I had to trust that she was right, even if she was acting like a teenager with a crush right now.
Aunt Dora excused herself to set the dining room table as I sorted through a stack of mail that had been waiting for me. Bills mostly, with some junk mail thrown in. Neither rain, nor sleet, nor snow, nor a mysterious curse could stop the postal service from delivering bad news.
The back door opened again and Merry and Ruth Anne tromped inside wearing matching yellow rain jackets, grinning as they carried in armloads of paper bags. They unloaded the groceries, chatting wistfully about Aunt Dora’s famous fried chicken with the hope that it was on tonight’s menu.
“Were either of you upstairs about fifteen minutes ago?” I asked.
“No, why?”
“I heard something up there, in my room. Scurrying noises, like large rats.”
Michael dropped his peeler and reached for a hand towel. “You heard something up there and didn’t tell me?”
“I don’t need to report every strange noise I hear to you. This is Dark Root. There’s nothing but strange noises here. Besides, I thought it was Merry, saging the room for me.”
“She does that,” Ruth Anne agreed.
Merry frowned. “It wasn’t me. We were trying out Ruth Anne’s new camera in the woods. It’s supposed to take pictures of spirits.”
Ruth Anne reached into her pocket and produced a bulky rectangular device. “M
y new mini full-spectrum camera.” She gawked at its splendor for several seconds before handing it over to me. “It can see infrared, visible and ultraviolet lights. You can even mount it. Another neat gadget to add to my collection. Cool, huh?”
“Yeah,” I agreed, though I had no idea what she was talking about. “Catch anything?”
“Just a squirrel brawl. Two rodents, one nut.” Ruth Anne looked at Michael with a grin. “Sounds like Maggie’s love life.”
“You’re funny,” I said.
“I’ve got good material to work with. The stuff practically writes itself.”
“Speaking of writing, don’t you…”
There was a crash above us, like a piece of large furniture had toppled. Michael dashed out of the kitchen towards the staircase with Merry and Ruth Anne following after.
Minutes later they returned. Ruth Anne had a white washcloth pressed to her eye and Merry led her to the sink by the crook of her arm.
“What happened? I heard lots of noise.”
Ruth Anne smiled, revealing a mouth full of pink teeth. “I tripped on the stairs.” She peeled back the washcloth to reveal a bruise around her eye and a gaping wound in her temple. “I was so excited to use my new ghost camera, I didn’t look where I was going.” She shook her head, then stopped when she realized it hurt to move.
“No ghosts anyways.” Merry shrugged. “Maybe our klutzy sister scared them off.”
Michael entered the kitchen. “Let me help. I know first aid and CPR.”
Merry held out a hand. “I’ve got this, Michael. Motherhood has taught me to be prepared for all manner of ouchies. Now close your eyes, Ruth Anne.”
Ruth Anne did as instructed.
Merry blew into her cupped hands, then placed her palms over the cut, watching the clock on the wall for one full minute. Ruth Anne shivered under Merry’s touch, her skin turning an opaque blue before settling back into its normal peachy complexion. At last, Merry peeked beneath her hands and smiled.
“Viola!”
The bruise and the cut were both gone.
Michael tramped forward, nearly knocking over a chair in his haste to inspect Merry’s handiwork. He lifted Ruth Anne’s chin and swiveled her head back and forth.
“Easy there!” Ruth Anne said. “It’s my head...not a reading lamp.”
“It’s a miracle.”
“Try magick,” Merry said.
Michael scratched his head. Miracles were one thing, they were ordained by God, but magick, well, that was quite another. Either way, he was obviously awed and I felt a bewildering trickle of envy at the way he looked at Merry.
No sooner had Michael finished his inspection than Merry began trembling.
Ruth Anne stood and offered up her chair. “Her magick comes at a price,” she explained to Michael. “Whenever she heals, it weakens her. She’ll be fine after a few minutes.”
I went to the refrigerator, removed a container of orange juice, and offered it to Merry. She swigged it straight from the bottle.
“Thank you.” She blushed and wiped her chin. “I’m usually not such a barbarian but I needed the sugar.”
Michael narrowed his eyes, and I could see the wheels in his head churning. “You have a very rare gift.”
“Don’t get any ideas,” I said. “You are not recruiting my sister for your whacko religion.”
“Recruiting? Maggie, I was merely suggesting––”
Merry placed a hand on my shoulder. “I got this.”
I looked at her. She was older than me but her round face, dimples, and clear blue eyes lent her a girlish appearance that would follow her into Crone-dom.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I keep forgetting you can take care of yourself.”
She squeezed my shoulder then let her hand drop. “Thank you for the compliment, Michael. It is a gift and I do not take it for granted. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to fold laundry. Ruth Anne, can you help?”
Ruth Anne shrugged but followed Merry into the utility room where the washer and dryer were kept, and Michael watched them go.
“Don’t you get any ideas, Michael,” I said when they was out of earshot. “Or you’ll have me to deal with.” I slammed my palm flat against the table and the can opener on the counter whirred to life.
Michael regarded me with renewed interest. “Why, Maggie, it appears you have your fire back.”
The sun held on much longer than it should have, casting a dim rosy glow over Harvest Home’s expansive garden. But even so, the rows of tilled dirt seemed desolate on this spring evening. There should be seedlings there, but without me to plant them, the grounds had been neglected.
I lifted my chin, absorbing the last rays of sunshine as I stood on the back porch, resolutely vowing to bring this garden to life. There would be fruits and vegetables, of course, but I’d plant flowers too, a notion that may have seemed frivolous to me before but which was absolutely necessary now. The world needed more beauty. Every plant, every flower, every sprout, were reminders that life went on.
My eyes drifted towards the far end of the garden, to the line where the property met the woods. The Dark Root forest was vast and ancient, shielding us from the world outside. The trees kept our secrets, and when the wind was right, I could almost hear them whisper to the ravens and the owls and to anyone else who might listen.
There are mysteries here, buried but not forgotten.
My gaze fell upon a small mound of dirt where I had hidden a glass figurine in a mason jar during pumpkin season. The demon Gahabrien was imprisoned below this earth, brooding until the day of his release. If there were secrets here, they were buried for a reason.
From inside the house I heard laughter, plates clanking, drawers opening then closing. The others were readying themselves for dinner. Being both pregnant and cursed, I was excused of these duties and escorted outside, so that I might enjoy some fresh air before the meal.
But my mind was not on my afflictions at the moment. It had settled on another image, of a tall man with chestnut hair, who wore jeans and a cowboy hat.
“I miss you, Shane,” I said aloud, as if the same trees that hid my secrets would also take my message to him.
I scooped my freshly-charged phone from the pocket of my alpaca sweater and checked for perhaps the tenth time for incoming calls or texts. Not a word. There were many old texts from Michael however, sent nearly a month ago:
Maggie I’m on my way.
Hang in there, twenty miles to go.
Maggie be strong for our baby.
As I read these, an unwelcome thought came to mind. Perhaps Michael’s reappearance was the reason for Shane’s absence. Then another thought: the curse, the baby, Michael, it was all too much for Shane.
Leave the drama, ditch the mama.
“Don’t be stupid,” I chastised myself. “Shane loves you and he’s not the kind to run away because of a little baggage.”
It helped to alleviate some of the neurosis, but none of the loneliness.
I stared at the mound near the edge of the property again. Was Gahabrien’s soul in that jar or did it reside somewhere in the Netherworld, just as I had, waiting, lingering? Was there a door for him, too?
An early season dandelion, already gone to seed, danced near my feet and I plucked it from the ground. It was still wet from the morning rain. I twisted the stem between my fingers, watching as the water splayed out around it like a fairy shower. I closed my eyes and made a wish before blowing the floaters away - but one floater clung foolishly on, unwilling to return to the garden.
Mother would say that was a bad omen.
Merry joined me on the back porch. She wore a faded apron and her face was tinted with flour. “Ready?”
“That was fast.”
“Aunt Dora had most of it done. We just threw it together.”
“You didn’t have to do all this for me. I’m not sure I can even eat much.”
“Oh, you’ll eat. No one can turn down Auntie’s home-made biscuits.
”
At her words, my stomach growled.
“We’ve got something else for you,” Merry whispered as we made our way to the dining room.
“I’m all out of ex-boyfriends.”
Merry planted a kiss on my cheek. “I promise, you’ll approve.”
I stopped, mid-protest, as my eyes found the woman sitting in one of the thirteen high-backed chairs positioned around the table.
Her green eyes met mine and her lips formed a thoughtful smile. “Maggie.”
I ran to her, or at least as much as my body would allow. “Jillian! I can’t believe it’s you!”
SEVEN
Do You Believe in Magic
I tripped my way across the dining room, the very room where Mother, Aunt Dora and Jillian used to hold their Council meetings.
Jillian rose regally from her chair and came to greet me.
“You’re really here!” I wrapped my arms around her neck. She smelled like sunflowers and sunshine.
Jillian stepped back to look at me. Her eyes traveled up and down the length of my body and her smile broadened.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me you were here?” I demanded, looking around for my missing siblings.
She reached out, touching my wrist. “Don’t be mad at the others. I asked them to keep it secret. I needed time to prepare.”
“Prepare?”
She waved her hand dismissively. “We’ll speak of that later. Now, let’s talk about you. I hear you’ve had quite the nap, Miss Maggie.”
“Yes, but I’m better now. I think.”
She took my arm and walked me into what was once referred to as the sitting room, which now housed several cushy recliners and a new flat screen TV. We took seats, side by side, scooting the chairs together so that we were mere inches apart.
“You always show up just in time,” I said, feeling suddenly emotional. “Like a fairy godmother.”
“If only I were.” Jillian took a tissue and dabbed at my cheek.
“Was I crying? I seem to do that a lot lately. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
The Curse of Dark Root: Part One (Daughters of Dark Root Book 3) Page 5
