Under the doors, through the gap, creeping into the building like frosty tentacles are rivulets of water that instantly freeze into icicles and spread like hoarfrost upon the worn floorboards. It shimmers in the darkness, alluring and dangerous, but abruptly stops as if slamming into an unseen barrier.
The sudden scent of a mix of beeswax and sage fills the air.
And in another moment, as quickly as the turmoil started up, it’s all over. The laughter abruptly ceases, the frost instantly dissolves as if it had never been, and the candles flare back to life.
Seconds then minutes tick over.
All is silent, save for our labored breathing and the occasional splutter of the candles.
‘Wait here! Move back inside!’ Ben commands, urging back the group of women into the center of the hall as he strides toward the barricaded doors.
‘He’s not going back out there,’ I whisper hysterically to Abigail, clutching at her arm. ‘It’s suicide.’
But she simply pats my hand in reassurance and watches her son leave to fulfil his duty.
As the doors swing open, I get the briefest glimpse of the steps and surrounding area immediately outside the building – it’s a carpet of black feathers and dead avian carcasses, which has me turning away in horror and disgust.
‘Here. Quickly. Help me,’ Abigail says to the others, removing the leather messenger bag from over her head where the strap crosses her chest protectively, and places the bag and its precious contents on an altar.
‘Cleanse and recast the circle,’ she says to one of the other twelve women in the hall, whom I’m standing amidst. The twelve are different ages and ethnicities, though all Wiccan.
The other woman exclaims in a shocked tone, ‘But Ben–’
Abigail cuts her off. ‘Ben is a Hunter. Do as I say and cast the circle. There is no time to lose.’
As they shuffle about, doing as Abigail has ordered, I pause long enough to take in my surroundings. There is a chalk circle drawn on the hardwood floor and one of the women seems to be pouring sea salt from a chalice upon the circumference, following a clockwise direction.
Sweeping my eyes around the church hall, I see that there are pentacles drawn on the walls and directly before the doors where the hoarfrost met a boundary it could not cross. The smell of incense and beeswax is almost overpowering, and the herbal scent from the bundles of sage placed upon the floor at the various points tickles my nose.
‘Evelyn, take off your watch and your cellphone and place it outside the circle, then step into the circle for protection,’ instructs Abigail, seeing me dithering, my expression one of curiosity and wonder.
So this is her coven. It’s not quite what I expected. I assumed, stupidly, that it would be dark and spooky but I am mistaken. There is a certain mystery but the atmosphere is thick with a sisterly camaraderie and, as I step within the circle, I experience a strange sensation as if I am part of a sacred space.
A very pale woman leans over to speak to me, she introduces herself as Judith. ‘The circle is for protection and we think of it as between the worlds. All positive energy is contained within the circle and the negative energy is kept outside.’
I thank her for the information and ask, ‘Why did I have to place my watch and cellphone outside?’
She smiles and I see the laughter line around her eyes, suggesting this is a woman who smiles often. ‘The circle is a place out of time. The concept of time takes on a different meaning within the circle and that’s why we have no watches or clocks or cellphones.’
Behind us, the circle is closed with blessed sea salt and a strange energy and warmth can be felt, blocking out the worst of the earlier chill.
The thirteen of us now form a circle within as Abigail, who stands beside the altar as the coven’s High Priestess, begins the ritual. She commences by invoking the quarters or, as Judith explains it, with the help of another, much younger witch, whose origins, I suspect, are Celtic, Abigail is calling the Guardians of the Watchtower.
She raises her arms and starts by facing east, moving in a clockwise direction, invoking, ‘Ye Lords of the Watchtowers of the East, ye Lords of Air; we do summon, call and stir you up, to witness our rites and to guard the Circle. Ye Lords of the Watchtowers of the South, ye Lords of Fire; we do summon...’ and, as she continues to call upon the elements, there is a balance and harmony which can be felt in the circle, extending goodness to the world.
‘Blessed be,’ the others intone afterwards and I copy them.
Next, Abigail lights the candle on the altar and passes the flame to light the next candle and the next, so that it spreads around our circle, followed by the incense in the charcoal of the burner, and the holy water. This invokes the cardinal elements: earth, fire, air and water.
Oddly, I can visualize the channeled energy and see it in bursts of color – purple, gold, silver, white – so that I feel suddenly empowered. I understand now why Abigail is both proud and humbled to be Wiccan.
But, just as I am lulled into an accord with the others, Abigail reaches into the messenger bag and retrieves Ichabod’s book that supposedly only I can decipher. But it is a book hidden within a book; this is his own Book of Shadows.
Chapter Eighteen
Abigail opens the book upon the altar. The others have seen the book before so it’s no surprise to them. But it is to me; every time I see the leather-bound book, I feel the same initial thrill of surprise and anxiety. Especially when she calls me to come forward to the altar.
But, instead of the book, she presents me with my very own Athame.
As she hands the cleansed, sharp blade to me, she says, ‘This belonged to Ben’s grandmother. She was a very powerful witch. We want you to have it.’
I feel humbled and blessed.
It isn’t what I expect but then I realize I haven’t thought about this properly since the beginning.
I glance over at Ichabod’s mysterious book. I had thought of the words as a riddle, a meaningless inscription, but this is not the case. As if subconsciously drawn, I approach the altar and the book. Behind me, the coven remain silent as if holding their collective breath. I have no fear within the circle – all that is outside, all the negative energy, all the fluctuations of the real world.
Remembrance of the written words bring back memories of my father. He would read me bedtime stories as a little girl and till now I thought they were just that, just stories, tales to scare little children to make them behave, tales of horror to impart morals and manners.
Fear is linked to memory … ten years ago … on Halloween … trick-or-treat … dark patches and shapes of something … Some great power has infused memory into the book. And another great power has attempted to tamper with it. What terrible power would or could do such a thing?
With my right hand, I draw the Athame and raise it high, pointed to the sky beyond the rafters to draw down the positive energy of the sun and moon, acting as a conduit or channel between the realms. The cardinal marks along the blade catch the candlelight and flicker into life.
Air. Fire. Water. Earth.
Strange characters and marks run along the blade, before transforming to reflect the written words from the inscription on the pages of Ichabod’s book. The writing flows like a pristine, crystal-clear stream. And the boundaries between life and death disappear. Caught in the reflection of light upon the blade, the inscription takes on new meaning … and I finally can read it.
*
‘You look exhausted. It comes from travelling in between the realms,’ says Rachael, speaking in the kindly, slow tone which she used back in the day when she was a registered nurse in triage to the injured soldiers. She’s the witch whom Ben’s mother told to recast the circle whilst Ben was still outside. Now, she and the others are cossetting me after the conclusion of the ritual, like clucky mother hens. ‘How about something to eat – I’ve always felt that it helps ease things a little – or would you rather go home and sleep it off?’
‘S
omething to eat would be great, thanks,’ I answer with a wan smile, grateful for such kindness. The real world no longer seems as solid and safe and reliable as I had once thought.
Rachael moves away to get me a plate as I turn to the others. ‘Does anyone know when the next full moon is?’
Judith speaks up, smiling slightly at my inexperience to a coven who worships the moon goddess, as she presses into my hand a mug of steaming hot herbal tea, ‘It’s next Tuesday, four days before Samhain.’
Relieved, I sip at my tea.
‘It’s good to see your gifts are hereditary, even though you lack training,’ says the young, Celtic witch named Aislinn. ‘I could see it bubbling beneath the surface when you entered the circle. You give out an extraordinary energy, you realize?’
But Judith seems troubled and sympathetic. ‘It is a blessing being a witch but it can be difficult too, such as in times like these. It is a wretched burden to bear; Soul Guardian in one so young. I would wish for you some of the fun of youth like my grandchildren have – none of the responsibilities and not having to face the darkness. You tread a difficult path, child, but if we can make it lighter, you may rely on the sisterhood.’
I am moved by her speech and give a small nod of gratitude.
‘Yes. I agree, it is a pity for one so young to be given such a task, but it is good to have a thirteenth member in our coven once more,’ says Rachael, returning with a plate of food for me.
Startled, I look up at her. ‘What do you mean?’
Judith and Aislinn exchange a look, but it is Abigail who speaks up, ‘We have not had a thirteenth member since our High Priestess was lost to us and I took over her role to guide the coven.’
Something in her tone prompts me to ask, ‘When was this? What happened to her?’
‘We do not know exactly. The events of that night are vague. Ten years ago the Hessian took her soul … on the same night that your father also disappeared,’ she replies, wearily.
I put down my mug with suddenly unsteady hands. ‘She died?’
‘Shortly afterwards, she never woke from her coma,’ Judith says quietly. She flicks a sympathetic glance toward Ben’s mother. ‘And we all miss her greatly, especially Abby.’
Rachael moves to put an arm around Abigail’s shoulders. ‘She was a good woman, Abby. You’ve filled her shoes admirably. You know your mother would be so proud of you.’
And now it all clicks into place. The High Priestess. Abigail’s mother. And the Soul Guardian. My father.
And I feel awful and guilty for ever thinking Dr. Martin-Crane a bitch for probing into my deepest, darkest fears and trying to crack open my mind to get me to remember what occurred that night … and maybe also shed some light on what happened to her mother.
‘I’m sorry about your mother. Real sorry,’ I apologize, even though I’m not responsible, but I feel her loss.
I’ve suddenly lost my appetite. But there’s still a job to be done.
Hesitating, I finally tell them what I have learned from the safety of the magick circle of protection, ‘There is a way to defeat the Hessian. Or at least bind him from stealing more souls. But we need to make our plans before the next full moon.’
Twelve witches look me directly in the eye – similar expressions of disbelief, hope, fear, anxiety and determination written upon their faces.
‘So what do we need to do, Soul Guardian?’ Aislinn asks, her eyes questioning.
I take a deep breath and say, ‘We need to use bait … we need to use a soul … to tempt him to emerge out of the netherworld and leave the other souls unguarded … preferably before the Feast of the Dead … and the best time would be the new moon under the protection of the goddess.’
‘What soul? Whose soul?’ Abigail asks, looking from me to the book, Ichabod’s Book of Shadows.
I feel a heavy weight upon me, a burden which adds to my exhaustion that is oppressive. But I make myself answer her, my eyes never leaving her face.
‘Mine.’
Chapter Nineteen
‘No! I won’t allow it!’
‘But it says in Ichabod’s book–’
‘I don’t care what it says in my ancestor’s book! For all we know he was seriously twisted!’ Ben is shouting at me; he’s absolutely livid, so much so that his clear green eyes are now stormy like the sea in a tempest.
I have never seen him in this state before; usually he’s the calmest of guys. But it’s when I finally have a solution to our problem – presented by Ichabod and the coven in recorded memory – that Ben decides to go ballistic.
‘So you want to let this bastard steal more souls? You’ll allow more people to die for no good purpose then?’ I argue, throwing up my hands in an exasperated gesture.
‘No! Bloody hell, of course not!’ he yells at me, then, realizing he’s acting like a lunatic, lowers his voice in a semblance of calm and continues, ‘I just don’t get why it has to be you!’
I sigh and turn away. I don’t say anything. We’ve been through all this before. I doubt a second or a third hearing will make it any better.
Ben’s mother and her coven have graciously left us to it – abandoning us in favor of some peace and less shouting and maybe even alcohol to drown their sorrows.
Just before they left, Aislinn, who has the Sight, tells us, ‘Many lifelines will be severed. It’s not over. It’s never over. The souls will rise ‘ere long.’ She fixates on a point beyond us, a time that we cannot see. ‘He will not let it be over.’
This is what has Ben aggravated; I’m certain he thinks that I’m going to die and it’s his duty to protect me.
‘I’m sorry for shouting at you. But I’m not sorry for giving a damn,’ Ben says, approaching me from behind and resting his hand on my shoulder. He does not expect me to face him as I continue to stare upon the field of wildflowers, touched by twilight.
I almost feel heartened, until he says, ‘So I take it, your grand plan is to … What? … Knock on hell’s gate and ask if the Headless Horseman’s home?’
I whirl to face him, flinging his hand from my shoulder in the process. ‘The cemetery. It’s where I first saw him. That’s where I’m going to be on the night of the new moon.’
Ben looks at me like I’ve well and truly lost it.
‘Friggin’ wonderful. It sounds like a brilliant plan. Death at the cemetery would be quite fitting,’ he mutters.
*
Everything moves briskly after I decipher Ichabod’s writing and announce my plan.
Suddenly I’m swept up in a course of events that I’m too emotionally and mentally fatigued to even think about. But it is a strange sensation, as if I can see time moving. As the new moon and Samhain swiftly approach, the writing on the pages of Ichabod’s book becomes almost illegible; the ink so faded that it almost blends into the yellow parchment and leaves only the faintest outline. It’s still there but soon I will no longer be able to see it. The story of my life.
The coven busily lay the groundwork for our enterprise; each witch performs rituals of cleansing and blessing, from their lanterns and candles to the sea salt and water, making sage bundles and hex bundles, and other such things, so that I feel like I am the eye of the hurricane, the only thing unaffected by the storm because I am the storm.
The night before the full moon, I feel strangely calm. I know this feeling won’t last and appreciate it all the more because of this knowledge. I think of Ben’s words; that this isn’t the life he would have chosen for himself and I have to agree. Already, I feel that my childhood is lost to me, the girl within can’t long survive the responsibility of leadership and duty, and I am simply the role they wish for me to perform; the Soul Guardian. I want to be angry at my father but I can’t; this isn’t the life he wanted for me either. I fear victory almost as much as I fear defeat. My face is a mask of bitter resignation and I wonder how free the dead are. When all this is over, will I be free?
Trying to cheer myself up, I look at the photos on my cellphone �
� parties, cheerleading, dinners with friends, my last vacation with Mom and Taylor to Disneyworld, right up to the selfies I took a few days ago in my Katniss outfit. But something bothers me.
Looking closer at the photos, I see something I never noticed before; in almost every shot, there’s a bright white smudge over my right shoulder, almost like sunlight hitting the lens sharply or overexposure. Sometimes close, sometimes far away. It’s very obvious in the selfies, and I enlarge the image to focus in on it.
I can’t breathe. I’m scared to.
When I was younger and thought Dad was dead, his death seemed somehow remote – something impersonal and isolated – maybe because there wasn’t a body to bury. But now, death reaches out from the grave to me, reaches out and touches me with a cold hand and a frozen heart, and I can smell it and I can hear it. It smells like decay. And it sounds like many voices silenced.
Within the bright smudge, I distinctly see their faces. The faces of the dead.
But what is infinitely worse is that I can see those who cannot die because their souls are trapped. Faces I know.
I am looking into the haunting face of Mia Markowicz.
It is as if she is mocking me by answering my question. There is no freedom for them nor for me, not until I perform my duty as Soul Guardian.
*
It is quiet amongst the dead; they do not ask for conversation but listen to the cadences of the wind amongst the headstones as they slumber in the quiet earth.
Ben moves silently with the stealth of a Hunter. My footing is far less sure but I am not the same girl who visited her father’s grave a few weeks earlier. I can now hold my own, but Ben still isn’t happy with this plan and has barely spoken to me since he was told of it.
Sunshine rains down between the branches of the trees within the forest, touching the autumn leaves and turning them burnished bronze, rich reds, fiery orange and pure gold. But the day is already losing its warmth and vitality, giving way to the more subtle beauty of the night.
Darkness Echoes: A Spooky YA Short Story Collection Page 44
