“Let the harvest begin!” Anona yelled. The kids squealed and ran into the trees, baskets in hand. Mirabelle, finally truly waking, looked at Anona with a raised eyebrow.
“What the hell holiday is this?” Anona laughed.
“Lughnasadh. It is an old harvest holiday celebrated across Europe in pre-Christian times. Since we are all farmers here, it seems right to celebrate. Plus, the kids love getting to pick apples by moonlight and candlelight.” Mirie rolled her eyes laughing.
“Did you celebrate this before Anona showed up?” She asked Lucy.
“We did not, but we’ve loved it ever since.” Anona leaned in and kissed Lucy on the cheek.
“Well, grab a basket!” Mirabelle did so and ran into the trees. It was a bit otherworldly; the shadows of the lanterns and flashlights danced among the trees, the kids giggled like forest elves.
“I can’t wait for you to see how we celebrate every holiday.” Matthew said, stepping out of the shadows behind Mirabelle.
“Are there many more I will be unfamiliar with?” Mirabelle asked.
“Unless you have a degree in world religions, both modern and ancient, and random American holidays celebrated by only a handful of families, I think we’ll have a few more surprises.” Matthew looked up, scampered up the side of a tree, and jumped down with two apples in hand.
“Apple?” He asked, offering it to Mirabelle.
‘Well, with a stunt like that I have to say yes.” Mirabelle bit into the apple; it was sweeter than any of the others she had tried from Anona’s orchard. Perhaps eating it in the middle of the night among the shadows and the trees gave it the forbidden taste.
By two in the morning, the kids had all gone home and Anona, Mirabelle, Lucy, Matthew, and Michael sat on the porch. Anona had collected all the lanterns, which sat flickering across the porch. She had made bread, apple butter, and moonshine cider, which they all enjoyed now.
“There is no way I am going to be awake for camp tomorrow.” Mirabelle laughed after a sip of Anona’s concoction.
“This was camp for tomorrow,” Anona replied. “All the kids will sleep until about ten tomorrow, and I count this as our summer holiday instead of the Fourth of July. I would much rather grill out and play with sparklers all morning with the campers than get up tomorrow and entertain a bunch of exhausted kids.” The air was still hot, even in the middle of the night. Beads of sweat formed on Mirabelle’s forehead, but she did not mind.
“We should head on home.” Lucy said, standing. “Happy Harvest.” Matthew and Michael both stood and said their goodbyes.
“Watch out for the Will-O-Wisp.” Anona said, soliciting smiles.
“The Will-O-Wisp needs to watch out for me.” Lucy replied with a mischievous look. Mirabelle watched them walk into the darkness, until the small light of the lantern they carried was completely engulfed by the night.
* * *
“Mirie?” Anona whispered. Mirabelle rolled over, immediately blinded by the strong sun spilling through her window and over her bed.
“What time is it?” Mirabelle croaked.
“Ten-thirty. If you sleep much later, you will get off your schedule. And you got a letter from James.” Mirabelle shot out of bed now, eager to hear from him. She tore open the envelope and was immediately covered with dried lavender buds. Mirabelle laughed.
Dearest Mirabelle,
This summer has sauntered slowly without you. The sticky days melt together and I hardly know what I have done besides lay lazily by the lake. I have written another film; I hope to begin it before I leave for New York. The premise is simple: Mid-1970’s, a catastrophe of drugs, prostitution, and lies in a seemingly normal middle class neighborhood in the suburbs. I have done some casting from the theater group from high school. Most are eager to add this to their resumes before college begins and they will be auditioning for parts. I find myself listening to Hotel California on repeat day after day for inspiration. I wish you were home to have a part. You would look beautiful in a ratty tank top with smudge surrounding your green eyes.
Part of me longs to be by your side, doing honest work everyday on the farm, but I believe I am meant to film the stories that are birthed from my mind. I look forward to visiting you in September.
My heart, my mind, my body – all are yours,
James
Mirabelle was a little confused. James had always been very artistic in his manners, but this letter was over the top even for him. She reread it a couple times, not sure how she would respond, but a little annoyed that he was filming a bunch of cute girls from high school dressed like hookers from the 1970’s. In the end, she brushed it off as James having a “creative” day, and began to look forward to his visit in September.
* * *
August was hot as Hades. Mirabelle began to feel that most days with the campers were stretched to an unimaginable length and the kids were crabby because the temperature hit ninety before ten am. Anona was ever cheerful, though. For many days, sports were being replaced with making popsicles or iced tea. One Tuesday Anona asked the kids to bring sprinklers and somehow concocted a wonderful oasis of five sprinklers in the middle of the yard. Even Mirabelle put on her bathing suit and ran through the array of water cascading through the air. The wet grass under her feet reminded Mirabelle of days with the slip-n-slide and she was struck with a sudden pang of loneliness for her parents and Gavin and Victoria.
“Having fun?” Mirabelle whipped her head around to see Matthew standing a few feet away laughing. She stood frozen, wanting to grab a towel, but knowing that the closest one on the porch was a hundred yards away. She awkwardly draped her arms across her hips, desperately wishing a towel, or a waist-high shrubbery, would appear.
“You’re a bit shady, coming out of nowhere,” Mirabelle answered, immediately thinking she should have just laughed and said yes.
“I’ve been here a while; you were enjoying yourself too much too notice.” Mirabelle just nodded and smiled this time. Matthew walked up to stand next to her.
“I’ve half a mind to run through them myself.” He whispered, peeking down at his watch. In a flash, he whipped off his t-shirt and ran into the water. The kids squealed in excitement that Matthew had joined their games, and he picked them up and spun them in the air and ran around until he slipped and covered his shorts and back in mud. Mirabelle could hardly contain herself, she laughed so hard. Matthew saw this and promptly tackled her into the mud, so she too looked like the swamp thing.
After everyone had taken a good, long dive in the mud, Anona made the campers, Mirabelle, and Matthew line up outside the house to be hosed-down before walking onto the porch. The spray of the cold water bothered no one, as the sun crept towards the noon hour.
“Matthew,” Anona started, once everyone was dried and sitting on the porch, “Care to tell a story for us today?” Matthew smiled.
“Why not.” He thought for a moment before starting. “When my great-grandpa was a child, he lived in Ireland. He lived in a small town in county Sligo, which is very near to Northern Ireland. The town was poor, because at that time, all of Ireland was poor. But in that town, there was a very strange family, and a lot of people told stories about this family. In Ireland the seals come straight up to shore, and bask in the warm sun. My great-grandpa spent many days just watching the beautiful seals. Now, there was a tale that some of these seals were actually selkies, seals that could change into humans, usually beautiful women. At night, they would climb up to the shore, shed their skins, and sing to the moon.”
“Selkie is Anona’s dog’s name!” Daniel burst forth.
“It is! Now, there was a young man, about eighteen years old, named Sean O’Callaghan, who decided to hide in the rocks that lay near the shore one night, and wait to find a selkie. To his surprise, a single seal pushed its body across the sand, then a woman slid out of the skin. He had heard a tale that if you took the skin of a selkie, she would stay with you, and no longer answer the call to sea. Well, Sean O’Cal
laghan did just that. He snuck up behind this woman, and grabbed her thick skin. She sensed him immediately, and seeing that he held her skin, looked upon him solemnly, but followed him back to the village. The next week the two were married, the rest of the town very confused where Sean had found such a beautiful woman to marry him.” Mirabelle sat spellbound. Matthew’s voice told the story perfectly; his steady tone hypnotized his audience.
“Now, Sean and his bride had five children, and they were very happy. Though the young woman never talked much to the other people, she seemed content with her life with Sean. Then, one cold January night, their youngest awoke. He peeked through the window and saw his mother standing at the edge of the sea in nothing but her nightgown. Afraid his mother would catch her death, he opened a trunk at the foot of his bed and pulled out the warmest blanket he could find. Then, he ran out to his mother. When he reached her side, he could see that she had been crying. ‘Don’t cry, Mother,’ the young one pleaded, and handed her the brown blanket to drape over her shoulders. The selkie woman now smiled through her tears. She kissed her son on the forehead, and wrapped herself in the blanket. It was her sealskin. She disappeared into the water, and never came back to the family.” A few of the kids let out small gasps. Matthew nodded gravely. “Sean’s heart was broken, but he kept his head held high for the sake of their children. The other women in town tried to help raise the children, but eventually, they all moved to another village. My great-grandpa was the same age as the youngest boy. Nice fellow, only strange thing was that he had the blackest eyes my great-grandpa had ever seen.”
“Now, that was really good.” Mirabelle blurted out, soliciting blushing from Matthew.
“Family stories. I’ve heard it a hundred times at least, so I should be pretty good at telling it.” Matthew clapped his hands against his legs. “Time for me to go.” Mirabelle watched him say goodbye to the campers, smiling. She shook her head a moment later, chastising herself. She had James, and that was that.
* * *
Towards the end of the month, the heat did finally begin to break. The kids got to play kickball for the last week of camp, and before they went back to school Anona hosted nighttime activities like star-gazing, bonfires, and catching fireflies. Mirabelle spent much of this week thinking about her friends from home; they were all packing up and leaving for college, getting to know new roommates and new cities. James was arriving at NYU on the twenty-third. He was planning to visit over September 11th, as he did not want to be in the city on that day.
On a full moon, Mirabelle sat on the porch late into the night, hours after Anona had retired to her bed. She had no lanterns lit, only the light of the moon and the stars shone down. The hot wind blew softly, dancing through the wind chimes. Mirabelle stared into the darkness, her eyes making out the soft outlines of trees against the sky. She was growing accustomed to the wondrous solitude she felt when alone outside here. It was unlike anything she had ever experienced.
A flash in the corner caught her eye and Mirabelle found herself staring at a bunch of trees. She swore she could see someone running through the trees. Her normal upbringing got the best of her, and she went into the house, and for the first time, locked the door behind her.
Chapter Four
Anona whistled while she picked apples. She could whistle so loud, it sounded like she had a microphone, echoing off the tree trunks. Rows over Mirabelle, Matthew, and Michael could hear it. Usually Matthew and Michael would sing, Anona joining in if she knew the song. Mirabelle preferred to keep silent unless she needed to curse to herself when she bumped her elbows, got a splinter, happened upon a bee, or simply wanted to go take a nap.
Work in the fall proved to be much harder than the summer. All the campers had gone back to school, and now Mirabelle awoke with Anona at 6 am to start picking apples from the trees. She had learned quickly the marks of a ripe apple, and needed to be vigilant of only picking those that were at peak conditions. On Saturdays, Anona would drive to a Farmer’s Market outside Philadelphia and sell the apples and the pies she made with them. Mirabelle would stay home and run around the farm three times, take a thirty-minute shower, have some time to herself, and make dinner. On the weekdays, Matthew would show up around seven and the three would pick apples straight on until noon. Then they would go inside, have a delicious lunch, and do other things around the farm until two. At two, sorting began. They sifted through all the apples, deciding which ones to sell as is, and which to turn into pies, breads, and jelly. It was lovely to be out of the hot sun, and they took turns telling stories to pass the time. Mirabelle slowly got to know Matthew this way, as well as little tidbits about Anona she had never known. At five, Matthew would head home, Anona and Mirabelle would make dinner, take turns washing the day off, and collapse into bed. Mirabelle would laugh to herself waking up at six, knowing that some of her friends would just be getting to bed. And when her head hit the pillow at ten, she would scarcely have a thought cross her mind before she was deep into dreaming.
* * *
“Two more days!” Mirabelle squealed on Wednesday.
“Until?” Matthew asked as he checked apples for spots. It had been a good day in terms of the harvest. Almost every apple was blemish-free and shiny.
“Mirabelle is having a romantic rendezvous.” Anona answered for her. “You guys will meet him on Friday.”
“My boyfriend from home is coming to visit. Anona is letting me borrow her truck to drive into Philly and pick him up at the train station. I can’t wait.” Matthew nodded and smiled.
“Well, I hope you have a fun weekend with him. Is he going to help around the farm?” Mirabelle laughed.
“No, he’s not really the type.” Mirabelle continued setting the good apples into the wooden box to be sold intact at the next farmer’s market. “He’s a film major. He’s been writing and making movies as long as I have known him.”
“You been in any?” Matthew asked.
“Only small parts. I’m not really a great actress.” Mirabelle answered.
“If you were in school, what would you be majoring in?” Matthew asked.
“English Lit. Not a lot of job possibilities with a major like that, but what can I say, I am a sucker for literature.” Matthew smiled.
“I’ve taken a couple English classes. They’ve been pretty fun. What’s your favorite book?”
“The Red Tent.” Mirabelle answered with no hesitation. “Yours?”
“The Iliad. I’ve read it four times.”
“Really? I hated the Iliad. I did love the Odyssey, though.” The conversation went on, over Achilles sexuality, the role of the gods, and the great sex appeal that cowardly Paris must have had to entice Helen away from her honorable husband.
“James!” Mirabelle yelled, seeing him through the crowds at the 30th Street Train Station. He looked a little different, but not so much that she could not recognize him. His simple t-shirts had been replaced with a black button down and his blue jeans with black and white striped pants.
“Mirabelle!” He answered, drawing her into his arms. He kissed her hard, dipping her.
“Well, what a hello!” Mirabelle commented when he finally brought her back up.
“Beautiful as ever, love.” Mirabelle smiled.
“Thanks, babe! How was your trip?”
“Enlightening. The everyday person of America is fascinating. I sat next to a man who spoke no English, yet read a Time Magazine.” James picked up his small leather bag and slung it over his shoulder.
“Good people watching, then?” Mirabelle giggled.
“Of course.” They walked through the city to where Mirabelle had parked Anona’s pick-up truck and headed back to the farm.
“Anona’s farm is beautiful. If anyone would get inspired there, you definitely will. And I can’t wait for you to meet Anona. As far as older sisters go, she’s pretty cool.”
“I imagine it to be the works of George Andrew Stanton come to life.” James responded, gazing out his wi
ndow at the passing traffic.
“Not really,” Mirabelle started. “Anona’s aesthetic is ethereal, but not dark. It more has the feeling of a country cottage than an otherwordly kingdom.” James shrugged.
Once Mirabelle and James turned into the driveway, Anona waved and started walking towards the car. Mirabelle stopped so Anona could approach the window.
“James, nice to meet you,” Anona said, reaching her hand in the window to shake his.
“It is an honor to meet you.” James answered. Anona furrowed her brow, but kept a big smile on her face.
“Yeah, honor to meet you, too. I’m going to get some fresh herbs and vegetables out of the garden for dinner tonight, why don’t you get James set up in the house?” Anona said, then sauntered back to her garden.
“So that is the muse of George Andrew Stanton?” James said full of wonder. Mirabelle laughed.
“Well, not really anymore. She hardly walks around the farm in the gowns. I haven’t even seen her put on a pair of pants that weren’t made of denim since I’ve been here.”
“Too bad her artistic energy is wasted on this farm now.” James said, sighing. Mirabelle scrunched up her nose.
“I don’t think Anona is wasted here at all. Her farm is like a work of art in it’s own. And she is a great role model to all the kids who live around here, and totally helps out their parents-”
“I wasn’t trying to be mean.” James said, sneaking a kiss on Mirabelle’s cheek. “I’ve just studied the work she did with Stanton; it was amazing stuff. The paintings she modeled for redefined the idea of femininity. She was a true inspiration.” Mirabelle softened and leaned into James. “So, where am I sleeping tonight?” James asked.
“I don’t know. Anona didn’t really say anything about it to me.”
“MIRIE!” Mirabelle whipped her head around. Michael and Matthew were walking out of the orchard towards her and James. She waved.
“Matthew, Michael, this is James, my boyfriend.” Mirabelle introduced them excitedly. She didn’t have a cool college campus to show off, or a roommate to meet her boyfriend from home. Matthew and Michael were the closest thing to new friends she had. James shook both of their hands.
Welcome to Witchhood (Sister Witches Book 1) Page 3
