When the Black Roses Grow

by Angela Christina Archer

“Emmalynn, what is underneath that blanket?”

  No, please, no. Please, do not be speaking of it.

  It—the vine that lurked in the corner, the black magic that twisted in my gut.

  “’Tis just a weed that I believe sprouted from underneath my home.” I sighed indifferently, trying to exaggerate the façade of calmness through my panic-numbed mind. “I had forgotten it was there when I tossed the blanket over there for washing.”

  James strode over to the blanket and lifted it off the vine.

  No, please. Lord, no.

  With his arms folded across his chest, he studied it without uttering a single word. Calmness whispered in through his shoulders as a smirk skewed his lips. His motionless silence clawed at my anxiety. Would he know it for what it was—black magic? Would he head straight to the courthouse to inform Sheriff Corwin of what he saw?

  Gather the villagers! We hath another witch to hunt.

  I closed my eyes to steady my erratic breath. I should not hath allowed him inside my home. I should hath sent him away, far away where the impudent vine could not cause turmoil. The damage now done, from the one choice I should not hath made.

  “I can remove it for you.” James gestured the movements with his hands as he finally spoke.

  “No, ‘tis not necessary, really, ‘tis not.” My voice cracked with my words as I rose from the chair. “I will ask Jeb to remove it in the morning. I believe he will hath to unfasten the board to dig up the root.”

  “Are you certain? ‘Tis not a problem.”

  “Yes, yes, I am certain.” With my nerve about to break, I began to pace.

  “If such is thy choice.” He shrugged his shoulders. “’Tis quite an interesting vine. I do not believe I hath seen another like it.”

  “I do not . . . believe I hath . . . seen one like it, either,” I laughed hoping to mask my panic. “But, I am hardly knowledgeable on the subject.”

  Suddenly, the fire behind us hissed. Stew boiled over the top of the pot, sizzling as the liquid dripped down upon the burning wood and hot embers. James hurried to fetch a spoon and stirred the thick broth, forgetting about the confusing vine, or at least acting as though he did.

  “I believe supper is finished.”

  I fetched two bowels from the cabinet and handed them to him. They clanked together in my trembling hand as his fingers wrapped around the edges.

  “Are you cold?”

  “I suppose I am, a little,” I lied.

  “I will throw another log upon the fire.” He ladled a few heaping scoops of stew into both of the bowels before handing them both to me. “Do you hath any bread rolls?”

  “Actually, I placed several in oven box before preparing my soup. I completely forgot about them, but they should be done. They might hath burned by now.”

  I stepped forward, but James blocked my advance.

  “No, I will fetch them. Just sit down and enjoy the stew.” The nudge in his voice mirrored the smile on his face as he plucked the rolls from the oven box. “I am afraid the rolls are quite brown, however, I think they are good.”

  As he set the rolls upon the table, his fingers brushed against my arm with an ever-so-slight touch that whispered across my skin. I caught my breath. Every muscle stiffened with a bolt of shock that shuddered through my body.

  He sat in the chair next to me, and within seconds, began shoving chunks of bread into his mouth, nodding as though he enjoyed the taste. “Slightly burned, but they are edible.”

  The hardened crust crunched and crumbled as he tore off a few pieces then tossed them into the bowl of stew. Each piece melted in the heat, softening as they soaked up the broth.

  He plucked the spoon from the table and blew on the scoop of hot stew. “And, now for the delicious part of the meal.” With a chuckle and another smirk, he winked.

  Stoutness mirrored through his movements, and yet, a hinted softness dwelled deep inside. An old soul, more known than once believed, the sense he was a stranger played a far distant memory, and a deepened calmness overwhelmed me as I sat in the chair, motionless.

  “Are you not hungry?”

  “Yes, I am.” I whispered.

  He nodded toward the bowl and spoon. “Why are you not eating?”

  I smiled and shook my head, unable to think of a word to say.

  “Did thy husband not cook for you?”

  I laughed, then slapped my hand over my mouth to drown out the unexpected volume. Utterly embarrassed, with my mouth still covered, I simply shook my head again.

  He leaned in close to me, his breath whispered against my skin.

  Heat spread through my veins and my heart raced.

  “Contrary to what other men think, Emmalynn, I do not believe that women are the Devil’s instruments. I believe they are wonderful creatures that should not only be provided for, but cared for.”

  FIVE

  The last drop of milk dripped from the udder, and I wiped the sweat from my brow as the cow happily chewed her morning breakfast. Her tail swished from side to side at the flies buzzing around us, the long tuff of hair slapped against my arm.

  Even through my tedious morning chores, the memories of the lovely night before replayed. I had forgotten the enjoyment of a man’s company, forgotten the peaceful calm that came after laughter, and forgotten the heart racing moments spurred by conversation with the one you desired.

  The shared longing glances from across the table, the ever so gentle graze of his fingers across thy arm, or thy fingers across thy neck to gain his attention—all hints of foreplay I hath lacked for so long, and all enjoyed along with his insinuations.

  His eyes fixed upon you even though yours danced around, in a stare hard with lust that teased as though it would turn into love and last a lifetime.

  The tightened arm muscles that seemed to clench even more when touched, whether on accident or on purpose, though you act as though it was an accident. They react just how you wanted them to react. Subtle hints that sparked intrigue and passion with a forceful tension you did not know if you would survive or fall prey to and lose control.

  I rose to my feet, fetched the milk pail from under the cow’s belly, and set it by the fence. My imagination toyed with thoughts of James. Perhaps, even standing in the pen with me, after morning chores, he would take me into his arms and, quite scandalously, ask me to dance.

  “Dance? With me? Here? Now?” I laughed to myself and waved my hand around. “Certainly, you must be teasing, James.” I spun around in a few circles, mimicking the steps that my father taught me long ago, even though it was a sin.

  “My you are simply a lovely dancer,” I mocked in a deep man-like voice. “Oh, why thank you.” My lady-like voice responded in a one-on-one conversation that I pretended to act out as though in a play I had heard my parents speaking about when I was young.

  “Good morning,” a voice called out behind me.

  I spun on my heel, meeting Adalene’s confused gaze.

  “Good morning.” I cleared my throat and kicked at a rock near the toe of my shoe.

  Hesitantly, she raised one arm, showing me the milk pail that swayed from her fingers. “Can thee spare an old woman some milk?”

  “Certainly.”

  She glided through the gate of the cow pen then set her pail at my feet. Her head cocked to one side as her eyes twitched in an odd knowing confusion. “Were you dancing with anyone in particular?”

  A lump caught in my throat and I shook my head. “I do not know what you mean. I was just trying to wipe the dust off my dress.”

  “He watches you, you know, just as you watch him.”

  “Who watches me?”

  “Mr. DeKane. I see the two of you all the time, around town, at service.”

  “I do not know what you sp
eak of. I do not watch anyone.”

  “I see the interest in one another. He is intrigued by thy every movement and every breath, just as you are by his.”

  My blood ran cold through my veins. “Thou ought to pay attention in service, Miss McCarven, instead of dream up imagined pictures in thy mind. You might miss a particularly significant sermon.”

  “A significant sermon? From thy hated reverend?” She laughed, only it was not an amused laugh. She stepped closer to me, until her body stood inches from mine. “He doth not belong to you, Miss Hawthorne. He belongs to another.”

  “If he belongs to another, then why doth he visit me?”

  She grabbed my arm, twisted it, and jerked my body toward her. With my face close to hers, her eyes narrowed to slits and locked on to mine. Her body rigid in her stance like a stone statue, the only time she had not trembled from her age and her lips curled over her gritted teeth as she hissed. “He. Visited. You?”

  I yanked my arm free from her grip and shook the pain away.

  James’s gentle nod good bye, the last image of him before he slipped away in the darkness of last night, burned in my mind’s eye. His smile, even just a glimpsed recollection, sent my heart fluttering with a quickened pulse that caused my skin to crawl in a pleasant fashion. Feelings I buried deep down and forced to a forgotten state stirred in my blood.

  “Tell me the truth,” Adalene demanded.

  “Yes, he visited last night.”

  Adalene drew in a deep breath and clutched her chest. “Mr. DeKane is betrothed to young Mary Pruett, thy sister-in-law.”

  “He is not betrothed,” I barked at her. “And, she is not my sister-in-law, not anymore.”

  “He is as good as, in Deacon Pruett’s eyes.”

  “However, he is not in his own, his intentions do not lie with Mary, and he spoke such words to me, himself.”

  “Do you not hold concern for the discord you face?”

  Annoyance simmered through my veins. Certainly, through my enjoyment lurked the consequences for our actions. Unaccompanied by anyone, we toyed with sin. Our time together now tarnished, we should not hath done what we did. Playing with fire never proved noble nor lovely, eventually the fire burns you—such the same road we now traveled.

  Desiring something or someone you should not brought a hard burden to bear. Eating away at thy convictions of proper and wrong—the moral compass you desired to sail by through thy life. Wishes, desires, needs, all shatter into pieces when not allowed liberty, and although I wanted to wage war for them, the confusion of whether I should overwhelmed me.

  “I know the consequences of my actions. I do not need a lecture.”

  “Do you love him?” she asked.

  “Certainly, not.” My gaze into her eyes broke as I stepped away from her. My words were not the answer I wished to bestow, but ones I must use. While one night hardly whispered enough time to know of such feelings, the ache of desiring him pained me greatly.

  Surely, to speak of love seemed foolish and young. Like that first love that sweeps you off thy feet in thy careless youth. Far from the girl I was with Joseph, the woman inside me knew better. One must reason before leaping into a rash choice in life.

  No, I did not feel love, but I do feel something.

  “What would I know of love?” I gestured.

  “Thou played the role of wife once.”

  “We married out of business not pleasure. A marriage designed more for acquiring land and securing profits than whole-hearted love.” My shoulders hunched as my lungs deflated. The hollow breath mirrored the chasm in my soul. “He wanted my father’s land, he never wanted me.”

  “And, you believe thy feelings of Mr. DeKane are different?”

  I gaped at her. “I never said such a thing.”

  “You must deny thy feelings toward him. If you chose to not, you will only find misery and suffering.”

  But, what if I found hope and love? What then?

  Was I so undeserving of such happiness that I should forget about him, about it all?

  Certainly, you are undeserving. Look how you sinned when offered a mere glimpse of hope, love, and happiness.

  Not able to bear another word of this conversation, I plucked her pail from the ground and poured half of the collected milk into it before handing it to her.

  “Is such all you desire today?”

  Her eyes darted from the pail to me and back to the pail as she uncrossed her arms then lifted the handle from my fingertips. She groaned under her breath. A darkened annoyance swelled into her eyes, shadowing their blueness.

  “Do not disregard my warning to continue thy life of sin. Thy actions bring only shame to the memories of thy mother and father.”

  Anger flared in my blood. Her words wounded, stabbing a thousand times, as the harsh pain of the truth punched me in the gut. Tears misted my eyes as I pushed past her, leaving her standing alone in the cow pen.

  “Good day, Miss McCarven.”

  I trotted through my back door, slamming it shut and not caring if she watched or followed. Dread and anxiety swirled in my stomach, casting a gloom upon the walls of my home that blurred through my tears.

  Time spent with James proved more than just time spent with simply someone. Time spent with him held more significance.

  And yet, it meant sin. I did not know if I could face its consequences.

  I leaned against the door, pressing my forehead into the wood. It moaned with coldness, like a lifeless being, sharing its displeasure in me. I glanced at the table, beckoning the memories and the happiness that flowed through my veins not but a few hours ago.

  Suddenly, I caught sight of something else, an intense evil that attacked without warning and strained the last nerve that held my sanity. The vine rested motionless, almost lifeless. If it were not green, I would think it not as a living plant.

  But ‘twas not a living plant. ‘Twas magic, dark magic. It haunted my soul and taunted me with its presence.

  Tiny clustered buds of black, silk-like petals bounced from the slightest whisper of movement. Undoubtedly, they will unfold into the same black roses that adorned the cross on my mother’s grave, although when, I did not know.

  Unrelenting dread churned in my stomach. Twisting and writhing until I could not take another second. I had to stroke it, had to feel the magic for myself with my own touch.

  I held my breath as I inched forward, outstretched my hand, and allowed my fingertips to graze along the crisp stem.

  One cannot expect the sheer realness and softness of utter ecstasy. In that one touch, my body drew a relaxing fragility, a soothing sensation. Gentle, yet divine, and the prickling itch crawling on my skin vanished, leaving my world as calm as a winter morning with the blissful silence of falling snow.

  My doubt faded, my fear perished, my thoughts dissolved.

  Rapture tingled through my skin. Not a care or worry touched my soul while only happiness pulsed through my veins. So foreign, and yet, so needed, I closed my eyes, and consented to stillness.

  A soft touch brushed against my wrist.

  I opened my eyes and jerked my arm away from the thin, wispy stem that had wrapped around my wrist.

  It touched me.

  I recoiled across the room until my back pressed against the wall.

  Panic bubbled in my chest. A plant had just twisted its stem around my wrist as though human and wished to communicate with me.

  A foolish thought, nonetheless, one thought just the same.

  The once chirping birds had silenced, although when I did not know, perhaps, just a moment ago, or perhaps longer. Instead, strange noises flickered in my ear. Like the bellows of townsfolk, and yet, the sound not loud enough. Distant whispers of a distracted mind?

  Had the birds fel
t the dark magic come alive? Had a presence clouded over my home, slithering through the air outside in an invisible haze that forced them to flee?

  With my eyes fixed upon the vine, the once faint sounds drew louder and louder with every second as though a crowd advanced down the dirt road.

  No, no, it could not be. Please tell me, I am not hearing what I think I am.

  My heart plummeted into the pit of my gut. I had lived through such a moment before when an angry crowd hunted my mother.

  I crept to one of my windows. My trembling fingers hesitated for a second before drawing the shutter open a few inches. I peered out of the window and my eyes locked onto the crowd marching down the street toward my home.

  They each held torches and shouted with booming voices as they followed Reverend Perris and the line of deacons dressed in their church suits, carrying their Bibles. I caught my breath the closer they drew to my home.

  “Kill the witch,” the crowd chanted. “Seek the justice and kill the witch.”

  Please no, Lord, please no.

  Closer and closer, the crowd advanced.

  “Kill the witch. Seek the justice and kill the witch.”

  I held my breath. My lungs begged for air and my mind spun in a clouded daze. My knees trembled under my weight. I exhaled, closed my eyes then drew one last deep breath, holding it, in fear.

  “Kill the witch. Seek the justice and kill the witch.”

  Please, do not come for me. Please do not come for me.

  Seconds ticked by until the crowd’s chants were outside at my front gate. They echoed through my home with a depth that could hath knocked the walls to the ground. I bit my bottom lip and clenched my eyelids so tight my forehead pierced with pain. The room began spinning, the dizziness consumed.