The Magick of Dark Root (Daughters of Dark Root)

by April Aasheim

  Ruth Anne stretched, grabbed two more cookies when Eve wasn’t looking, and passed one to me. “Close. I write paranormal romances.”

  I waited for her to say “gotcha.” The Ruth Anne I remembered hated all things paranormal. Not to mention romance.

  “You’re kidding, right?” I finally asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Oh.” I tried to wedge this new version of my sister into my brain, making it somehow meld with the old version. It was like trying to squeeze into a pair of jeans two sizes too small. You could do it, but it hurt. “So, what is a paranormal romance exactly?”

  Ruth Anne finished her cookie and reached for yet another one, licking off the frosting. “The age-old story of boy meets ghoul. They have amazing ghost sex. Then they live, or die, happily ever after. Easy peasy.”

  “But why?” I asked, still confused. “I mean, why do you write it?”

  “The hours are good, the pay is fair, and it’s fun doing the research. With my background, I have a bit of a leg up on the competition.” She leaned in and whispered, “Did you know that Dark Root isn't the only place in the world where people believe in witches and ghosts and things that go bump in the night? Everyone wants to believe that there is more to this world than meets the eye.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” I said, remembering the way Michael wished for the end of the world to come, so that his prophecies could be vindicated. “Do you make a lot of money?”

  Ruth Anne scratched her head. “My first book did really well. Climbed some best-seller charts and kept me in macaroni and cheese for several years. But after that, well, I couldn’t write anymore. Couldn't think of anything that would live up to the first, and so I stopped trying.” She shrugged, her eyes finding the window behind me. “Anyways, I’m hoping some time here in Dark Root with family, will open up the mental floodgates.”

  I gave Ruth Anne a tight-lipped smile. “I hope so, too. If not, there’s always helping Eve down at the shop.”

  “Oh, God,” she moaned, smacking her forehead. “I better write a best seller.”

  We laughed, reminiscing about all the hours we’d put in at the store when we were kids. Ruth Anne had vowed then never to return to the store, and that was a vow she intended to keep.

  Our conversation was interrupted by Paul, who crawled out from behind the tree, a dark green cord in each hand. “We’re almost ready,” he said. “I think we replaced all the bad bulbs.”

  “It’s cute to see him so excited. He’s like a little kid,” Merry said, returning with a clean-faced June Bug.

  “His family didn’t celebrate Christmas,” Eve whispered. “Now, he’s a junkie. Starts watching holiday movies in September.”

  “Everyone here?” Paul asked, counting heads. “How’s the tree look?”

  “Like it threw up tinsel,” Eve said.

  “Don’t listen to her, Paul,” Merry said. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Thanks, Merry. Okay then. Here goes nothing.”

  We stood before the tree, admiring a relic that hadn’t seen the light of day in half a century. I placed both hands on my belly, allowing myself to feel the small swell beneath my dress. By this time next year there’d be one more person gathered around the tree. Could I take care of it? I wasn’t sure, but standing here, amongst my family, I knew I wasn’t alone.

  Paul went to fit the two ends of the cords together when June Bug stopped him. “Wait. Where’s Grandma?”

  Merry’s fingers massaged June Bug’s shoulders. Her face tense, she said, “I’m sorry honey. I think Grandma is having a hard morning. She won’t be down for this.”

  I shot Merry a questioning look. She bit her bottom lip and shook her head, letting me know that something was very wrong.

  “Go ahead, Paul,” Merry encouraged him softly, and after a short hesitation he merged the two cords together.

  “Ooh!” June Bug exclaimed as the tree came alive. Hundreds of multi-colored lights reflected off the glass ornaments, sending colorful prisms about the dining room.

  The tree didn't’ look sad anymore; in fact, it looked hopeful.

  “Thank you, Uncle Paul,” June Bug said, catching her reflection in an ornament. “It’s lovely.”

  “See, ladies?” Eve said, tilting her head and placing a finger to her chin. “A little color and the right accessories does wonders.”

  We stood for a several minutes, each lost in our own thoughts as the lights twinkled across the silver Christmas tree.

  Finally, Merry spoke up. “I hate to be a party-pooper, but we should turn it off. The electric bill is going to kill us.” When June Bug frowned she added, “We can light it again this evening before bed. I promise.”

  Paul reluctantly pulled the plugs and we all converged on what was left of Eve’s cookies, except for Merry and June Bug who munched on carrot sticks.

  “Hey, Aunt Maggie,” June Bug said in between bites. “Want to go download songs with me? The internet is working!”

  “It is?” We hadn’t been able to get online anywhere in Dark Root except for Shane’s café on Main Street. And that was only sporadically.

  “Yes!” June Bug said. “Auntie Ruth Anne introduced me to ‘90s music.”

  “Yeah, and thank you for that, by the way,” Merry said. “She’s been listening to nothing but Black Hole Sun and Oops, I Did It Again for the last three days.” Merry rubbed the sides of her temples with both hands.

  “You’re welcome.” Ruth Anne grinned. “Consider it payback for the Macarena torture you inflicted on us when we were kids.”

  “Yeah,” Eve said, lowering her brows. “Thanks to you, Mom threw out the CD player and all my cds. It’s called karma.”

  Ruth Anne raised a cookie. “Be thankful I haven’t played Achy Breaky Heart for her yet.”

  “You wouldn’t!” Merry’s eyes widened and I had to laugh.

  Merry had spent long days learning the dance in order to impress an older boy at school. He found the whole thing laughable and told his friends about it, sending Merry to her room for three days. A week later, he developed a case of mono, and we were never sure if it was his own bad luck or Mother’s work. We didn’t ask.

  “You used to be such a romantic,” Ruth Anne said.

  “We all used to be something,” Merry answered. “But yes, please keep that song, and story, to yourself.”

  June Bug tugged on my dress. “Come on, Aunt Maggie. There’s this band called Spice Girls that I think you’ll like.”

  “I’d love to,” I said, taking my niece’s hand as I mouthed the word “help” to my grinning sisters.

  “I’m afraid she can’t right now,” came a raspy voice. Leaning against the banister at the bottom of the stairs, holding a cane as gnarled as her hands, stood my mother.

  “Mama?” Merry ran to her and we followed. “How did you get downstairs? Are you alright?”

  Mother waved her away with a shaky hand and tapped the end of the cane to the floor three times. “Ladies,” she said, her effulgent blue eyes taking us in. “I’ve waited too long for this day. Let’s make some magic.”

  Four

  SANTERIA

  Dark Root, Oregon

  Sister House

  October, 1993

  “Now girls,” Miss Sasha said, adjusting her wire-framed glasses over her round nose as she surveyed her daughters who sat quietly around the dining room table. All except for Ruth Anne, who watched the proceedings from the bottom of the staircase. “One doesn’t enter into the craft lightly. You must take your vows with a glad heart, for once you take the oath, you are bound to the sisterhood, and remain a witch for life.”

  “But aren’t we already witches?”

  It was Merry who asked, her hands neatly folded in her lap. Eve cocked an ear and Ruth Anne inched forward, though still feigning disinterest.

  Maggie stared out the window, wishing she could run and play on a day like this, when the leaves were crisp and the rain had silenced.

  A finger sna
pped beside her face, bringing her back.

  “Maggie, pay attention! How will you run The Council one day if you keep ignoring all your lessons?”

  “I still don’t know why Maggie gets to take over,” Eve said, chewing on the ends of her long, ebony braid. “She’s not the oldest and she’s not the best.”

  Miss Sasha leaned across the table, her eyes meeting Eve’s. “No. She is not the oldest, but it’s not for you to decide such things.”

  “But Merry’s better,” Eve insisted. “She can grow things and heal people and…”

  “Quiet, Evie. Listen to Mama,” Merry said. “I don’t want that job anyway.”

  “Well,” Eve argued. “Neither does Maggie.”

  This was true, of course.

  Witchcraft bored Maggie. Casting spells was about as exciting as watching water boil and less predictable. Merry could have the job. Or Ruth Anne, for that matter.

  “That is neither here nor there for now,” Mother said. “You girls can’t take the oath until you are fourteen. I am only trying to prepare you for what is to come.”

  Miss Sasha straightened her back and patted down her brown, frizzy hair.

  Maggie noticed a coil of gray hair wound between the curls, but held her tongue. The last comment she’d made on Mother’s gray hair had resulted in Miss Sasha locking herself in the bathroom with three boxes of hair dye for the entire day.

  “Now, back to Merry’s question,” their mother continued. “Where do witches get their powers? Any ideas?”

  Ruth Anne took another step forward and raised her hand.

  “Yes?” Miss Sasha asked her eldest daughter.

  “Magic isn’t real so they don’t get it from anywhere.”

  “That’s enough, Ruth Anne,” Mother warned. “If you aren't going to participate, go back to your books.”

  Ruth Anne clamped her mouth shut but didn’t move from her spot.

  Miss Sasha turned to the three girls at the table. “You all were born with magic. It’s in your blood. But…” She raised a warning finger. “That alone doesn’t make you a witch. You must take the oath. It’s an important day for any young women, something we all dream about and look forward to.”

  “Even better than a wedding?” Merry asked dreamily. Not quite ten, she had already begun putting together a hope chest filled with treasures and trinkets collected from around the house.

  Miss Sasha sighed as she took a long sip from her teacup. Catching her reflection in the china cabinet, she put down her cup and ran her finger along a deep line that ran from her nose to her mouth.

  “Dora,” she called into the kitchen. “Do we have any aloe? My skin is feeling a bit dry.”

  “Aunt Dora’s gone to help at Harvest Home,” Ruth Anne explained. “Miss Rosa fell and hurt her hip.”

  “Is Miss Rosa okay?” Merry asked.

  Miss Rosa was old, maybe the oldest person in Dark Root. She owned Harvest Home, the house where The Council conducted most of their business. She had taken on a grandmotherly role for the Maddock sisters, greeting them with warm cinnamon rolls and lectures on washing behind their ears whenever they visited.

  “I think so,” Ruth Anne said, chewing on the end of a pencil. “But Aunt Dora said she was going to stay and look after her.”

  Miss Sasha frowned again, the lines on her face deepening. “It’s all changing,” she said, her voice trembling. “The world is moving too fast and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  She looked at her daughters and her frown turned into a thin-lipped smile. “But there’s always tomorrow. And as long as we have tomorrows, things will be okay. Isn’t that right, girls?”

  Merry nodded, Ruth Anne shrugged, and Eve tugged on the end of her braid. Maggie stared out the window. In the world of tomorrow she had plans for her life. And none of them included taking her mother’s place at the head of The Council.

  I took Mother’s right arm while Paul flanked her from the left.

  The others followed us up the winding, sconce-lit staircase, down the narrow corridor lined with portraits of people I couldn’t remember, and past the nursery where we’d spent our early years until we were old enough to move into the attic bedroom.

  At last, we came to the unremarkable door that led to Mother’s bedroom.

  Paul turned the knob and Mother’s hand shot out, grabbing hold of his wrist.

  “No men!” she hissed, her sharp blue eyes unblinking. Merry and Eve protested on his behalf, but she held her position. “I said no men! They can’t be trusted.”

  Paul’s phone rang and he pulled it from his pocket. Looking at the screen, he frowned.

  “It’s okay,” he said, backing anyway. “I have to take this anyway.”

  “Who’s calling?” Eve demanded, but Paul had already bounded down the stairs. “He’s been acting really weird lately,” she said, her eyes on him as Merry opened the bedroom door.

  Stepping inside Mother’s room was like falling down a genie’s bottle: Rose and honey toned trinkets and bobbles winked at us from every direction. A burgundy canopy floated above the antique four-post bed, and thick billows of jasmine incense rose up from all four corners of the room.

  “I feel like someone’s going to sell us a magic lamp,” Ruth Anne said, rubbing her hands expectantly.

  Mother coughed loudly then clutched a bedpost for support. “Eve, roll that up please,” she said, pointing to an emerald and ruby-colored Persian rug that covered the large expanse of floor between her bed and the east window.

  Eve complied and we all gasped as a white shape was revealed beneath the carpet: a five-pronged star within a circle.

  “A pentagram!” June Bug called out.

  “That’s right, honey,” Merry said, taking her daughter’s hand and leading her to a spoke. Without having to be told the rest of us seated ourselves on the remaining points as Mother entered the star’s center.

  “Now girls,” Mother began in a raspy voice. “I’ve waited many years to see you all here. Time is short and I would have waited until I was in better health, but I’m afraid that day may not come.”

  “Mama, of course…” Merry began, but Miss Sasha stopped her with a stern look.

  “I’m an old woman, Merry, and nothing can change that.” She looked at us each in turn then cleared her throat. “Today, you take your oaths.”

  With the aid of her cane she hobbled to an unremarkable oil painting on the wall behind me, a portrait of a young man and woman riding horses in the forest. She removed the painting from the wall and set it gingerly on a chest beneath it. Next, she moved her hands across the wall until she discovered a knot in the plaster, a small white nodule completely invisible unless you happened to be looking for it.

  In a wink she pressed her palm into the knot, and a panel slid open, revealing a small alcove.

  “I’ll be damned,” Ruth Anne said, removing her glasses and peering at the wall.

  “Not on my watch,” Mother said.

  “Is that a secret passage?” June Bug asked, rising to get a better view before being pulled back to her seat by Merry.

  “No, dear, it’s much too small to be a secret passage, but there are many secrets in this house, and in Dark Root. Some I will show you. Some you will find out on your own.”

  She reached inside and withdrew a brown leather pouch with a drawstring tie. She studied it a moment, as if to re-familiarize herself with it, and with slow and precise steps returned to the pentagram. Merry went to assist her, but Mother shook her head, then gradually lowered herself to a seated position. She thrust her legs out before her and rested the cane across her lap.

  “Maggie,” she called, sliding the pouch to me. “Will you remove the items inside, please?”

  The pouch was brittle and cracked. I reached inside and removed the first item: a scroll made of parchment.

  “Should I open it?” I asked, my fingers tracing the wax stamp in the shape of a tree that sealed it shut.

  Mother shook her head.r />
  I set the scroll aside and removed a sleek, black vial filled with liquid.

  Finally, I pulled out the final item, a silver needle as long as my palm. I lifted it carefully, avoiding its sharp end. Eve, who knew my fear of needles, shot me a look as I handed everything back to my mother.

  “We will make a blood pact,” Mother said.

  A blood pact involved pricking your finger and then pressing your open wound to another’s. It was an ancient practice, a ceremony performed to bind people together as family.

  “But we are already family,” I objected as I stared into the eye of the needle.

  Mother gave me a wan smile. “This is the way it’s always been done. We do not trifle with tradition.”

  She pricked her index finger and a drop of blood appeared on its tip.

  She motioned for June Bug and my niece showed no fear as Mother lanced her skin. June Bug then took the needle to Merry and the two joined their wounds together. Merry did the same to Ruth Anne, then Ruth Anne to Eve.

  At last, Eve knelt before me.

  My hands trembled. I hated needles. I could hardly be in the same room with one. Needles symbolized all that was wrong in the world: pain, illness, endings, death. I reached for it, but couldn’t bring myself to take it.

  “I can do it for you,” Eve whispered, taking my hand and turning it palm up. “It won’t hurt. I promise.”

  “No.”

  I lifted my chin. They had all done it, even June Bug. Before I could talk myself out of it, I pierced my right index finger. Blood rose to the tip and it throbbed in pain.

  Eve quickly grabbed my hand and pressed our fingers together.

  “I’d love you even if you weren't my sister,” I whispered to her.

  “I doubt that.”

  “It is done,” Mother said.

  Mother unrolled the scroll, holding it up to show us that it was blank. “Eve, can you run a candle across this, please? A red one?”

  Eve retrieved a candle and we watched as she ran it across the scroll. Wherever the flame touched the parchment, elaborate letters in black ink appeared.