by Vicki Vass
I shuddered. Pixel flew when he saw Squirrel, the black-and-white cat. “Me friend.” They ran off onto the dark green grass and tumbled chasing bees. Pixel, I believe, had a crush on the tuxedo female cat. I did not trust her, or perhaps I was jealous?
Mrs. Twiggs jumped out of her chair and ran to Mrs. Owen, embracing her. Mrs. Owen’s solemn appearance turned slightly receptive, almost a smile you might say. She was dressed in a fine, very old, violent-and-polka-dot sundress and black cloak. I rubbed up against the cloak. I could not tell its origin. It was silky-looking but rough to the touch. I felt a drop rolling down my face. I was bleeding from my head where I had rubbed the cloak.
Mrs. Owen opened the cloak and reached into a deep pocket, retrieving a small leather bag that she handed to Mrs. Twiggs. Karen Owen is a witches’ apothecary, a trader of teas, herbs, spices, and magic. As in any good trade, she always expects something in return. The hogweed she had just given Mrs. Twiggs had come from another time, a time before the humans. I feared its price tag.
“Beatrice, walk with me, won’t you?”
Mrs. Twiggs smiled and followed Mrs. Owen up a cobblestone path heading toward the rose garden. I kept a safe pace behind. Mrs. Owen was neither black magic nor white magic. She kept a sturdy hold on each side of that line. Hers was purely business for those who could afford her wares. I remembered Elizabeth telling me one time the phrase “time to pay the piper.” Mrs. Twiggs was about to pay for her dance. They sat on a granite bench facing the rows and rows of tulips. “Karen, how did you ever find this particular hogweed? I’ve Google searched, I’ve called colleagues, I’ve looked through spell books.”
“This strain of hogweed grows in complete darkness. It only flowers once a century. Its roots are deep in the soil of a County Cork graveyard,” Mrs. Owen said.
Mrs. Twiggs appeared confused.
“It was buried in a grave some five hundred years ago.”
Mrs. Twiggs held out the small leather pouch.
Mrs. Owen placed her hand on top of Mrs. Twiggs. “It’s okay, Beatrice. I know your purpose is for good not evil. This plant like me serves its purpose by them who wield it.”
“How do I pay for such a treasure, Karen? How do you price such a rarity?”
“In time, Beatrice, in time. Your account is good with me.” Mrs. Owen gave a Mona Lisa smile.
As I feared, Mrs. Twiggs was accruing a debt she would never be able to pay. I could hear the ladies calling for Mrs. Twiggs. She rose up. “Karen, I’m sorry, there’s so much to do for the celebration. Of course, you’ll stay, won’t you?”
Mrs. Owen sat back down. “I’m sorry. I must be on my way. Give my regards to the ladies.”
As Mrs. Twiggs hurried off, I leaped onto the bench next to Karen Owen. Without warning, I felt myself lifted off the bench by my scruff. The rocking chair man twisted me around until we were eye to eye. “Put her down,” Mrs. Owen commanded. For a moment the rocking chair man hesitated. As he did I could see an earthworm sliding in and out of his eye socket.
“Terra Rowan, you have no power in this world anymore, and without power you have no value. You think you mentor these ladies, but what you do is bring the black magic upon them. It is drawn to you and to your Abigail. The ladies will never be safe as long as you two are near them.” I knew she was right. I had no argument for her, and then for the first time since I had known her, Mrs. Owen showed a spark of kindness toward me. “I say this for your own safety too. Get to the Dark Corner.”
I closed my eyes for a second. When I opened them, she was gone. I gazed up at the sky, half expecting to see her on a broom writing my name in smoke, but that was nonsense—that’s not how witches fly. The broom was a symbol—a symbol of how the original earth walkers swept the earth clean of black magic. Shrill screams brought me back to earth. I followed the sound to the front lawn. As I ran to the sound, people ran the opposite way, almost trampling me. I darted in and out of legs, searching for a clearing. The sky over the maypole was dark. My head was swimming with a loud buzzing noise. I found Pixel flat on the ground, covering his ears with his paws. Tens of thousands of locusts filled the sky over the Biltmore Village green, like a whirling dervish of darkness, blocking out the sun. They descended onto the flowers decorating the tables and maypole. They were everywhere, surrounding us, covering my fur. The ladies’ hats were alive with black locusts as they ran, arms flailing, swatting them away. Running into the tent, we struggled to close the tent flaps, keeping the locusts out.
Mrs. Twiggs shouted over the noise. “What’s going on?”
“Mrs. Stickman,” I shouted, struggling to be heard over the buzzing.
She nodded her head and raised her hands. Lightning exploded across the sky. Dark clouds gathered followed by a heavy downpour. As quickly as they came, the locusts blew away like the great dust bowl across the prairie skyline.
Chapter 16
A Wiccan Pajama Party
The sun extinguished over Black Mountain where we had retreated after we had cleaned up the village green. The ladies sat around the table in the cabin. They appeared defeated, war torn, their hats tattered. Mrs. Twiggs paced back and forth in front of them.
Mrs. Stickman stood up. “Okay, if no one else is going to say it, I will. What was that Biblical apocalyptic nightmare? What just happened in downtown Biltmore Village?”
“Terra’s working on that, trying to figure out where the locusts came from and what brought them here,” Mrs. Twiggs said.
“What you mean is who sent them?”
Mrs. Twiggs was silent and sat down. Then she said, “We’ve all felt dark creatures stirring. Am I right?” The ladies nodded their heads. “And we’ve all felt the coming of May Day and the magic it brings forth.” They all nodded their heads again. Mrs. Twiggs continued, “For every action of white magic, there is an equal and opposite reaction of black magic. Our celebration of May Day, our first as a coven of Wiccans, drew the black magic to us. That’s why it’s more important now than ever that we close our ranks, hone our skills.”
June Loblolly stood up. She took her hat off, flinging it on the table. “I for one am tired of being afraid of black magic. I’m not going to live my life in fear.”
One by one, each lady stood and threw their hats onto the table. After throwing hers, Mrs. Twiggs smiled. “There’s the spirit, ladies. There’s nothing we can’t overcome if we believe in ourselves.”
Mrs. Bartlett pulled her silver blade out of her cloak. In a wink of an eye, she threw it across the room where it stuck deep in the wall. Abigail ran over to remove it and the spider that clung to it. She examined the spider, and then she placed it in the center of the table where it stood perfectly still. It was no larger than a half dollar, black with red eyes. The blade flew back into Mrs. Bartlett’s hand. She stabbed the table in front of the spider. It cringed.
Mrs. Bartlett bent down and spoke to the creature. “I see you, and I see your kind around my house, watching. Return to the darkness and don’t come back.” The spider evaporated up in smoke.
“There are spies all around us, ladies,” Mrs. Twiggs said. “Minions of the darkness. Tonight we celebrate the last hours of May Day. When the veil between white and black magic is at its thinnest. We will draw the white magic to us and shut out the black magic.” Mrs. Twiggs filled the sherry glasses. She added a pinch of nettle leaf to each. They raised their glasses in harmony. “To all that is good,” they said in unison. They drank it down and went out the door.
I stopped Abigail at the door. “What are you doing, Terra?”
“This is not for you, Abigail. This is their battle. We can’t always be there to protect them.” I knew that Abigail and I would be leaving and might not be coming back.
“What do you mean?” Abigail asked.
“You are not a part of the coven.”
“I want to watch.” Abigail and I followed the ladies to the clearing, which was surrounded by oak, ash, and thorn trees deliberately planted by Agatha Hollows. A
blood-red moon hung in the sky.
We sat quietly at a respectful distance as we watched the ladies join hands in a circle. They danced in that circle for hours with the enthusiasm of children. I felt the ripple of their joy as it expanded out into the woods. I heard the creatures in the shadows that had been watching us, scream in agony and run, slither, and fly away. Abigail looked around. She heard what I heard. She saw what I was seeing. Apparitions came out of the woods. Gentle creatures being drawn to the love of the coven.
Pixel crawled up next to me. “Who they?” he said, stuttering.
“Pixel, you can see them?”
He nodded.
“Those are humans caught between worlds.”
Pixel nodded, appearing to understand me. “Like Mr. Twiggs?”
At midnight the ladies finally stopped their dance and fell to the ground, staring up at the stars. I walked around to each of the ladies and pointed out their star. I had known from the moment they turned where their stars were.
It was much too late for everyone to drive home. Mrs. Twiggs arranged the cabin with hand-sewn patchwork quilts, air mattresses, and feather pillows. We lit a fire and camped out in the living room. Abigail twitched her nose and conjured pajamas for all of them. The ladies’ faces glowed from the firelight. With their giggles and smiles, they resembled a troop of Girl Scouts. I knew from that minute forth no darkness could enter their circle even without the ninth Wiccan. The Ladies of the Biltmore Society had become a sisterhood of warriors.
Chapter 17
Doris Stickman
Doris Stickman has become an enigma to me. At one time, she was a woman of physical frailty, relying on her cane for guidance but demonstrating an incredible inner strength. A passionate woman with great empathy for those around her, she cannot control her ability to summon storms and to control natural disasters. This I see as a great concern; her emotions are so deeply tied to the environment around us. A gentle tear could turn into a monsoon. An angry word into a hurricane. I did not know how much time I had left, and for that reason I chose to do what I could, to best leave the ladies. Each would have their day and their part to play, but this day belonged to Doris Stickman. We left the other ladies asleep in the cabin and stepped out into the stillness of the dawn. A morning mist rolled off the mountains, capping their blue tips, merging the peaks into the skies.
Abigail quietly closed the cabin door behind us. Pixel complained and finally gave in once I explained he needed to stay and protect the ladies. He knew I was telling a half-truth but respected my wishes. What we were about to do was too dangerous to risk his life.
Dressed in her purple African dashiki, Mrs. Stickman relied on her carved walking stick, with a cobra head made of copper, to lead her up the path. We followed the path up Black Mountain until it ended. The mountain laurels twisted, locking arms, blocking our way. Abigail spoke an incantation, and their gnarled branches unraveled, parting like the Red Sea. We continued up the mountain, Mrs. Stickman never asking where we were going. She understood. After summoning the storm at Biltmore Village, she understood the powers she wielded. We reached a plateau, no more than two thousand feet above the cabin. Abigail flung her backpack to the ground, sitting down cross-legged. Mrs. Stickman sat next to her, relying on her cane to lower her down.
“Okay, Terra, are you going to explain why we’re here now?” She reached into the pocket of her dashiki and pulled out a cigar, which she lit. She puffed smoke rings that flew to the sky like little clouds. She smiled and drops of rain fell from the smoke rings.
“I want you to summon lightning,” I told her.
“How do I do that Terra? I was afraid at the May Day celebration, so when you told me to summon a storm I didn’t have to think about it. It just came out of me.”
“Your body is in tune with the elements, and your emotions can stir those elements, but I need you to be able to control them without emotion. To summon them as you please. That’s why you still struggle with your frailty. You are letting them control you. Your body is deteriorating.”
“How do I do that, Terra?” she repeated.
I ran up the plateau to a granite overhang. Mrs. Stickman creeped up and stood next to me. We stared down into the green fertile valley. The sky was bright blue with not a cloud to be seen. The morning mist burned off. “Think of yourself on a boat on an ocean. The waves are crashing against you. A violent storm is coming. You can’t calm the waters around you. You must calm the waters inside you. Find your center.”
Mrs. Stickman closed her eyes, taking deep breaths. As she did storm clouds gathered. She opened her eyes. “What’s happening, Terra?”
“You are calming the waters within, taking all your emotions out of your magic. The storm is coming because you will it. You’re in control of your mind and body.”
Mrs. Stickman raised her walking stick in the air. Lightning struck across the sky. She raised her stick again, and lighting struck the copper cobra head. Her entire body glowed. She pointed her stick at an evergreen across from the overhang. Lightning flew from the copper cobra head and split the tree in two. She waved her hands, and the clouds blew away. She stood straight and tall.
Abigail cautiously climbed up the overhang. “That was really cool, Mrs. Stickman.”
Chapter 18
A Friendly Ghost
I was getting used to wearing the emotional support animal vest. Abigail’s charm wore off, and there was no time to gather the necessary ingredients to cloak me again. I accepted the emotional animal vest. It was my way into places that normally would be closed to me. We sat in the grand foyer of the Biltmore Estate. Mrs. Twiggs, Abigail, Charlotte, myself, and my constant companion, Pixel. Even if Tracker had an emotional support vest, his youthful energy would have given him away. His constant pacing and whining would not be tolerated. A gentleman came over to us.
Mrs. Twiggs rose and greeted him. “Justin, so nice to see you,” she said.
I recognized him from the pumpkin fest. Justin Pickering, director of events, had overseen the Biltmore special events for quite a few years now. We followed him back to his office where he sat down behind his large cherry desk after showing Mrs. Twiggs to the seat across from him. I appreciated the craftsmanship of his desk. It was late 1800s, probably a souvenir from one of George Vanderbilt’s European furniture-finding trips. The palladium window behind him looked out over the east lawn. Pixel hopped out of Abigail’s arms and sat on the small table, staring out the window. Mr. Pickering turned around in his chair and scratched Pixel’s ears.
“Beatrice, I had our exterminators walk through the village grounds, trying to locate the source of the locusts.”
I thought the source would not be found, at least not in this world.
“What a horrible catastrophe. It seems like the Biltmore curse is true. First poor Mrs. Lund and then the locusts ruining the May Day celebration.”
“What curse are you talking about?” Charlotte asked.
Mrs. Twiggs realized she hadn’t introduced Charlotte to Mr. Pickering. “Justin, this is Charlotte Tangledwood, Emma’s great-niece.”
Mr. Pickering rose and turned to Charlotte. “I am so sorry for your loss. She was a great woman and a great benefactress of the estate.” He took his seat, turned to all of us, and continued, “The curse I’m referring to was cast upon the Biltmore and the neighboring village by a clairvoyant from Louisiana, Madame Claire. She came to host one of the many séances that George and Edith Vanderbilt held at the estate. While here, she stayed at the Fillmore Hotel in downtown Asheville, which was where many guests stayed while the estate was under construction. A great fire burned down the hotel, killing many of the guests including Madame Claire. On her deathbed, it was said she cursed the Vanderbilts and the Biltmore.”
Abigail shifted in her chair. I stepped onto her lap. She stroked my fur, listening intently at the sound of her grandmother’s name.
He continued speaking. I spoke with Abigail in her thoughts. “Terra, he’s talking ab
out my grandmother,” Abigail whispered without moving her lips. “She didn’t cast a curse. It was the evil that came for her and the book that cursed the Biltmore.”
Mrs. Twiggs listened into our conversation while smiling and nodding at Mr. Pickering.
“Abigail let it go,” I told her.
“He’s talking about my grandmother. She’s a white witch.” Abigail held back tears for the grandmother she had only met as an apparition. We turned our attention back to Mr. Pickering. The conversation turned to Mrs. Lund.
“How did you find Mrs. Lund?” Mrs. Twiggs asked.
“She contacted us. She saw we were planning the Civil War exhibit, and she volunteered to come help.”
“Did you verify her references? Did you call the university?”
“I didn’t think it necessary since Mrs. Loblolly recommended her.”
Abigail stood up. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to show Charlotte around the estate.”
Mr. Pickering said, “Of course.”
Charlotte and Abigail ran off. I thought it best to remain behind and continue listening to the conversation.
“I went over all this with the police,” Mr. Pickering said. “Of course, we’ve tried to keep it out of the papers as much as possible. For now we’re calling it a tragic accident.”
“Yes.” Mrs. Twiggs nodded. Her attention turned back to the Civil War exhibit. “The ladies will be glad to help with the exhibit. They already have been volunteering family heirlooms, and I have an extensive knowledge of the battles fought in the Carolinas. And I would love to help you with the exhibit.”
