The Witching Elm (A Memento Mori Witch Novel, Book 1)

by C. N. Crawford

  He smirked. “I see. So in your love metaphor, are you Hitler?”

  “I don’t…” She trailed off, biting her lip. She squinted up at him. “Do you like jazz?”

  “Fiona!” A familiar, high-pitched voice sliced through their tête-à-tête.

  She froze as Jack’s attention shifted to somewhere behind her. “I think the Latin teacher is looking for you.”

  “Fiona Forzese!” Fiona’s mother’s voice grew louder. “You need to wear a hat in this weather.”

  Her eyes clamped shut. Opening them, she turned to see her mother looming closer, brandishing a woolen hat and scarf. Her mother’s curly, strawberry blonde hair caught in the wind, dancing in the air like a lit match.

  “Honestly, Fiona. I know you’re at the age where you like talking to boys, but you need to cover up. It’s January!”

  “Mom!”

  “Salve, Ms. Forzese,” said Jack.

  “Salve, Ionannes.” Ms. Forzese raised her hand in a Roman salute. Turning to her daughter she continued, “Fiona, why don’t you ever wear this hat your grandmother knit for you?”

  She placed the lumpy red hat, complete with pink pompoms, on Fiona’s head and wrapped a bulky blue scarf around her neck. She started to move away, and then squinted as she scrutinized her daughter again.

  “Have you rolled your skirt up?” she demanded.

  Fiona turned to Jack. “Um, I’ve got to go.”

  She rushed past her mother, eager to escape the disaster before Jack saw the tears in her eyes.

  8

  Tobias

  It was dusk when Tobias stepped outside the school gates, and the setting sun’s light pierced the clouds before disappearing below the horizon. Scattered snowflakes continued to fall. He hurried across the street. In the Common, blood-red lines marked some of the cleared paths. On the far side of the park, where abandoned temples stood in Maremount, elegant, castle-like buildings graced the hill. Their windows, orange-hued with electric lights, punctuated the wintry landscape. They looked like the type of places where Viscount Brad might attend a dinner party in one of his old children’s books. As Tobias strode through the park toward the ravens, he looked out for the great elm. But where its jagged branches should have been easily visible, he saw instead a swirl of falling snow.

  In Maremount, they were hanging people at the elm again, like the old days. He dug his hands into his pockets, looking at the ground as he walked. What if Rawhed captured everyone after I flew away? He’d seen what Rawhed’s Harvesters could do to someone. Once, he’d seen John Ursin standing atop a tree trunk on the Maremount Neck. His head was covered in a black hood, his arms outstretched. The Harvesters used magic to ignite the surrounding air, so that if he moved even an inch, he would electrocute himself. John’s body shook all over. By the time Tobias had run to gather members of his coven to fight alongside him, John was missing, only to turn up later as a mutilated corpse in the harbor.

  He glanced at the murky clouds. Until he reunited with his friends, he wouldn’t be able to talk to anyone here. Not really talk. He fiddled with the locket around his throat. He’d miss Eden’s hands rubbing his neck when he worried. He’d miss his father’s rambling stories of his youth. He’d even miss the early-morning squawking of Ottomie, his crow. He felt an overwhelming sense of isolation.

  Outside the northern border of the Common, he quickened his pace toward the King’s Chapel cemetery. The ravens were most likely to appear there. As he drew nearer, he saw that the black gates had closed.

  Rows of of gravestones rose in uneven lines from the snowy ground, comforting in their irregularity. Everything else in Boston seemed to be made of straight lines. He gripped the gates’ iron spikes, waiting for a messenger. For hundreds of years, ravens had traveled between Maremount and Boston, delivering news.

  A group of ravens was called an unkindness, but they weren’t unkind really. Just indifferent. Oswald and Eden transformed into meadowlarks, and the phrase “exaltation of larks” fit them better than “murder of crows” suited him. One medieval philosopher with a corvine familiar murdered a few monks, and suddenly all crows had a bad reputation.

  A single raven fluttered from a maple tree. It landed on the gate between his hands, blinking its black eyes up at him.

  “Hello, Contcont.” Tobias addressed the raven by its formal name. “Can you tell me what happened to Oswald and Eden Larkin? The last time I saw them, Father was about to chant the traveling spell from the philosopher’s guide.”

  The raven puffed its chest. “Burned, unfortunately.”

  A flash of pain gripped his stomach. “They burned? They’re dead?”

  “No, your friends are alive. The philosopher’s guide burned. Your friends are merely stuck in Maremount.”

  His chest relaxed as he exhaled. “Thank the gods. What are they doing?”

  “They’re in hiding with your father, trying to fight Rawhed from the Tuckomock Forest.”

  “Who’s winning?”

  “No one.” It puffed his feathers, shaking its head.

  Tobias looked down at the ground, biting his lip. It was hard to think of what to say to a raven.

  He glanced up again. “What can you tell me about Rawhed?”

  The raven cocked its head, blinking at him before emitting an irritated croak. The ravens were reluctant to get on the wrong side of powerful leaders.

  “Can you tell me what he looks like? The Tatters named him after a monster in a children’s story. Rawhead and the Bloody Bones. Is he a real monster?” Tobias pictured Rawhed with an emaciated face and long, bloody fangs.

  The raven blinked, opening his beak and closing it again soundlessly.

  “Can you tell me what he’s searching for? He’s not just after the illegal covens—is he? He’s looking for something else.” Impatience crept into his voice. He knew the raven wouldn’t answer. It was a messenger, not a spy.

  It shook its body.

  Tobias sighed. “Thank you.”

  With a twitch of its head, the messenger hopped along the fence, and then extended its wings to fly back toward the maple. That was it, then. He’d be stuck here on his own, perhaps for the rest of his life.

  As far as he knew, Father had owned one of the few philosopher’s guides that existed outside of the schools. With the book destroyed, no one could recite the spell for traveling between worlds. Tobias’s link to Maremount had been severed.

  9

  Fiona

  Fiona marched through the Common with tears stinging her eyes. Her friends didn’t have to worry about embarrassing mothers who worked at the school, covering them in woolen pompoms and bulky hand-made scarves. Sure, Mom’s employment there meant that she received discounted tuition, but her presence was stifling. The only thing worse would be if her mother lived at the school, like Ms. Bouchard.

  The sky had darkened to a muddy gray. She needed to return before curfew, but she kept marching through the snowy park, only slowing her stride when she approached an old man who tottered through the snow with a cane. She’d always thought it disrespectful to walk too quickly past elderly people. It felt like showing off.

  Few people lingered in the park today. Fiona tightened her scarf against the cold as she crossed Park Street, trudging past the church and the crimson-robed woman who always sermonized there.

  “All must submit to the King of Terror! When we defy God, the world of the living becomes the world of the dead!”

  Fiona trudged on, beyond the fading rants of the hoarse-voiced woman. As she neared King’s Chapel Burying Ground, she saw someone without a winter coat leaning with his back against the gates, dark hair falling into his eyes. He stared at the ground. As she drew closer, she recognized Tobias.

  “Hey!”

  He lifted his chin, his dark eyes meeting hers. “Hello.”

  “You know, you’re supposed to be back in your room at dusk.”

  “Oh?”

  She shrugged. “You wouldn’t know. It’s your first d
ay.”

  “Why are you out at this time then?” He stood up straight. “You don’t look very happy.”

  She shook her head, looking down. “I’ve had an awful afternoon.”

  “What happened?”

  She took a deep breath. “I was trying to talk to a guy I like, and it turned into a disaster.” She wiggled her freezing toes in her shoes. She should’ve worn boots today.

  “Oh. It probably wasn’t as bad as you think.”

  “Trust me, it was. What about you? You don’t look particularly happy either.”

  He shrugged, glancing toward the cemetery. “Just homesick already, I guess.”

  “For England?”

  He nodded. “Right.”

  He wasn’t giving many details away. “Aren’t you cold without a coat?”

  He gave a little laugh and nodded, his eyes glistening. “Yes. I’m cold.”

  As the Park Street Church bells pealed, she pulled off her chunky blue scarf, wrapping it around his neck. “There you go. All yours.”

  “Thanks.” He glanced at her with a weak smile. “Should we go back to the school?”

  “I guess.” Her breath misted in front of her face. “But I don’t really want to. How about some hot chocolate first?”

  She led him across the street to the nearest coffee shop and bought a large cup for each of them. Heat from the paper cup warmed her hands as they tromped back toward the Common. Tobias was quiet, sipping his drink and looking at the snow.

  “What’s the hot chocolate like in England?”

  He frowned. “Not this good. I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything so good.”

  They stepped into the park, where shrieking children pelted each other with snowballs.

  Fiona peered over at Tobias. He had those cheekbones people described as chiseled. “What part of England are you from?”

  He sipped his hot chocolate. “The west.”

  “Just ‘the west’? Is there a city?”

  He shook his head, frowning. “You know, it’s not that interesting. How about I tell you a story as we walk back? Something I’ve been writing.”

  “You write?”

  “When I have time.”

  “I happen to like English writers.” Tobias was even more interesting that she’d initially thought.

  She followed him on a path that diverted toward the right. The thrill of being out in the dark brought a smile to her lips, and giddiness rose in her stomach.

  “Picture a place that looks like Boston.” He looked into Fiona’s eyes, gesturing with his paper cup. “There’s a Common like this. Around it are crowded alleys that wind below people’s windows. At night, the streets are lit with floating lanterns of foxfire.”

  They walked west through the darkening Common, past the snow-covered tennis courts. Fiona peered at him over her hot chocolate. This was an unexpected turn.

  “In this place, ordinary people can’t read, so there are painted signs on the taverns in blue and red and gold paint. There are symbols of ravens and stars, king’s-heads and fire-breathing dragons.”

  “Why can’t people read?”

  “Well, the wealthy can read. In Maremount, the aristocrats practice magic, but for everyone else it’s illegal. There are a few secret covens for poor people, but the King wants them disbanded.”

  Fiona wrinkled her forehead, glancing over at him. “This place is called Maremount?”

  “Right. It’s just imaginary.”

  They now stood at the edge of the park, as cars inched forward in gridlock along the icy street.

  “You see these streets?” He looked down at the slushy pavement. “They were filled in with land from the nearby hills. In my story, these streets remain a bay, full of cod and lobster. There’s water all around. There are crabs here, and sometimes at night there are flickering sparks on the waves. Those are the Nippexies—the water spirits. They’re still here underground, I think.”

  “Maremount sounds lovely.”

  He kicked at an icy chunk of snow. “Well, except for the civil war.”

  “Civil war?”

  He adjusted her scarf on his neck. “Just part of the story.”

  “Boston’s not as beautiful as the place in your story, but there’s the garden in the summer, and you can see fish in the aquarium.”

  “The aquarium?”

  “They’ve got a tank that you can walk under. You can see the fish from underneath. It’s beautiful.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  “We should go with Mariana. She knows all the fish names.”

  “We should get back now, right?” He gazed at her with a hint of a smile. “I guess my story didn’t really go anywhere. But it was nice to talk to someone.”

  “I guess we should get back.” By now she could picture the sparkling bay he’d described and was loath to leave it for her dreary room.

  Tobias started to walk toward the school, and she followed, glancing back at where the water spirits might be. She usually hated this time of year, when the trees looked like skeletons and her feet were always cold. But their stroll after curfew had refreshed her, and Celia’s proposed adventure started to seem more appealing.

  10

  Tobias

  In the warm glow of his desk lamp, Alan sat on the floor wearing a large pair of red headphones. He held a sketchpad in his lap, absorbed in drawing pictures of sea monsters. Tobias had finished his homework an hour earlier. Unsure of what else to do, he lay against his pillows trying to read one of Alan’s books: The Golden Dragons of Llanwyon.

  He could usually lose himself in a good story. It hadn’t been easy, though, learning his letters—an endeavor forbidden to the poor. As a child, he’d stayed up late with his father every night, reading by candlelight. What’s more, he’d had to practice the dialect of the literate classes. Even Oswald and Eden didn’t speak it; book words weren’t the language of the Tatters in Crutched Square. But his father had taught him the language of wealth, of schools, of lavish dinners, and fictional heroes like Danny Marchese.

  Though he’d learned how to read, the complicated genealogies at the start of Alan’s book sapped his focus. He glanced out the window. Snow fell from branches in cloudy gusts that sparkled in the streetlights. Wind rattled the old windowpanes, and drafts seeped in through their cracks. Oswald and Eden must be sheltering somewhere in the Tuckomock Forest now, among the few shabby houses in the wilderness. He pulled the blanket around his shoulders.

  Alan looked up from his drawing, pulling off his headphones. “You never explained what happened at your old school. Why did you leave partway through the year?”

  Tobias’s eyebrows shot up. He didn’t even know enough about schools to come up with a reasonable answer, but he found it worked best to stick as close to the truth as possible when he lied. “I was educated at home.” Is that something people do?

  Alan nodded slowly. “Homeschooled. With your mom?”

  “My father.”

  “And it wasn’t working out?”

  “Exactly.” He exhaled. It seemed like Alan knew what he was talking about. “You know how it is.”

  “I wouldn’t last a week at home with my parents.” Alan reclined against the base of his bed, folding his hands behind his head. “But what happened to all your stuff? You don’t have any clothes or a computer or anything.”

  Tobias’s jaw tightened, and he pulled his blanket closer around him. He and his coven had obviously overlooked a few things when they’d talked about blending in. “Everything was lost on the way.”

  “On the flight?”

  “Right. The machine—the airplane lost it.”

  Alan stared. “You have to buy new clothes and everything?”

  He looked toward the window. “I would, except the coins were lost.” That’s not right. He waved his hand. “Not coins. I mean, the money. The dollars. ‘Coins’ is English slang for money.” With any luck, his classmates knew less about England than he did.

  Alan eyed
him quizzically. Still, there was always the distraction spell if he really needed it.

  “Huh.” Alan shifted the sketchpad off his lap and stood up. “I have an extra coat you can borrow. And my mom sent me some Christmas and Valentines Day underwear there’s no way I’m wearing.” He opened the top drawer of a dresser, rifling around until he pulled out two unopened packets of underwear. He tossed them to Tobias.

  “Thanks, Alan.” He held the packages in his lap. In one, cupids and hearts decorated the fabric, while the other featured an apple-cheeked old man with a white beard. At least this would save him from the awkward nightly ritual of washing a single pair of underwear in the bathroom sink and holding it under the electric dryer.

  “And socks.” Alan threw a package of red and white striped socks into his lap. “I read that girls like boxer briefs. Hang on.” A buzzing noise interrupted their conversation, and Alan pulled a small, square device out of his back pocket. He stared down at the screen. “It’s Fiona. She wants your number.” He glanced at Tobias. “Do you have a phone?”

  “Lost. By the airplane.” He hugged his blankets. Apparently, Fiona had enjoyed his story.

  A smile spread on Alan’s face. “Sweet. Fiona says someone disabled the alarms on the front gate.” He glanced at Tobias. “She, Celia and Mariana want us to sneak out with them for a séance. Are you in?”

  “Someone knows how to conduct a séance?”

  “Celia does, apparently.” Alan returned to the floor, crossing his legs. “Anyway it’s not real, it’s just for the hell of it, like Ouija boards. We’re supposed to meet them at the corner of Boylston and Tremont at midnight. What do you think?”

  What did he have to lose? There were no bone wardens here to tear him to pieces for practicing casting spells; no king to hang him in the square. Sure, magic always created some danger. A spell’s aura could summon spirits, and not always the nice kind. Magic could lure a wrathful mattinitock wearing a human-skin cape, or one hungry for possession of a living body. Demons, they called them in Boston.