by Vicki Vass
Mrs. Twiggs touched Morgan on the shoulder, and she collapsed. Detective Willows was the first to arrive. Mrs. Twiggs sat across from him, sipping tea, filling him in on the whole story.
Abigail and I examined the painting. I couldn’t believe it took me that long to realize what I was looking at. “Abigail, this is the same map Agatha Hollows used to get to Poinsett Bridge.”
“It doesn’t look like a map,” Abigail said.
“No, but it is the same path to the bridge,” I said. “It’s enchanted. We have to decipher the secret to reveal it. Mrs. Tangledwood knew the spell. She wanted to leave the answer to her great-niece—the real Charlotte. This is Mrs. Tangledwood’s greatest treasure. All her other possessions were earthly and will turn to dust in time. This is the true gift she left for her bloodline. Mrs. Twiggs,” I said. “The book, the book that opens the secret room.”
Mrs. Twiggs looked at me and ran to the shelf. She examined the spine and read out loud, “Humphrey Repton. The Theory and Practice of Landscaping. 1795. First edition.” Mrs. Twiggs turned to us. “This is the book that inspired Olmsted to become a landscape architect. He used this book to teach his pupils. He said, ‘You are to read this seriously as a law student would read Blackstone.’ Emma knew that the Ladies of the Biltmore Society would know this reference. She wants us to read Olmsted’s personal journal and to read it seriously.” Mrs. Twiggs checked the shelves but couldn’t find it. She went into the secret room, checking the drawers in the writing desk. They were locked. “Open,” she said, and the drawers flung open. She found Frederick Law Olmsted’s personal journal—the one that George Vanderbilt gifted to the Tangledwoods. She brought it to us. “Emma told me about the journal but she never let me read it.”
Abigail took the book, flipping through it, running a finger along the lines. “Terra, there’s a passage here about his trip to Ireland to bring saplings to the Biltmore Forest. He mentions oak, ash, and thorn. He brought a clipping of an ancient oak tree. He’s talking about my spirit oak tree, isn’t he?”
I nodded.
Abigail continued reading. “He mentioned traveling into the hedges of Lullymore in the County Kildare. The locals told him of a single hawthorn tree that was said to be the home of the last woodland fairy. Intrigued by the fairy tale, Olmsted brought the hawthorn tree to Biltmore Forest.” Abigail closed the journal. “That’s all that’s in there, Terra.”
“We are to read that journal as the letter of the law. I believe that Olmsted brought with him the last fairy on earth. She kept the secret of the portal at Poinsett Bridge. Agatha Hollows knew how to open it and showed me the labyrinth to follow to reach the river, to gather the magic to cross over, but she did not show me how to continue. That way I could never be held hostage to black magic and deliver them into the portal. This painting is a map, painted by the last fairy of Lullymore, the last fairy on earth. She only gave Olmsted half the puzzle. Agatha gave me the other half.”
“We have to go,” Abigail said.
“But, Abigail, no one has ever come back. I didn’t tell you this, but I saw Elizabeth in the portal. She couldn’t leave it. She couldn’t cross back into this world.”
“I don’t care, Terra, we have to save Pixel. We have to defend ourselves against the lieutenant. How do we decipher the map?”
“Like the Wiccans, the fairies’ bloodlines faded as the magic of this world faded and the humans took over, encroaching on their land. Their magic dwindled as the human science became the new magic. In 1820 when the Poinsett Bridge was built to connect the Carolinas, the fairies used the last of their magic and the magic of these ancient mountains to open the portal to the fairy world from where they first came. They hoped that one day they could return to our world which they loved. The Lullymore fairy was the last to cross over. The rest had already evolved.”
“Evolved into what?” Abigail asked.
“Butterflies,” I said.
We turned when we heard a thud against the window. Flutter landed on the windowsill. I paused and stared. “There wasn’t enough magic left for them to save their race. Elizabeth told me this story a long time ago. I thought it was literally a fairy tale. She told me so many fairy tales when I was a little girl. She said only the fairy queen could enter the portal and return the fairies to the woods.”
Chapter 35
Flutter
Mrs. Twiggs finished with Detective Willows and then came over to us. “Detective Willows is trying to find the real Charlotte. Her parents died several years ago, and there has been no trace of her since then. They’re releasing Mr. White.”
Flutter pounded against the window again. The three of us went outside and watched as she danced from one hibiscus to another, yellow to apricot to orange and then back. It took me several minutes to realize there was a pattern to her dance. I ran back to study the painting and saw the same colors. There was a path, a dance of the fairies to make the tumblers click to unlock the portal.
Abigail filled her backpack with supplies. Mrs. Twiggs drove us to the animal hospital so we could say our goodbyes to the ladies. They all remained glued to Pixel’s side. I stared down at my friend, my familiar. He lay still, monitors and IVs hooked up to his tattered and broken body. Flutter flew around the room, landing next to Pixel. She flapped her wings fiercely, and a small sprinkle of dust flew off them, covering Pixel. He moaned and then opened one eye for a second, staring at me before closing it again. It was late at night, the best time to travel. We’d have to follow the stars to make our way to the river. Abigail picked me up, cradling me in her arms.
Mrs. Twiggs pulled us aside. “We’re all coming with you,” she said. “We’ve trained for this day.”
“It’s better if we travel light and unnoticed, and you need to stay with Pixel. I don’t want to leave him alone,” I said although I would welcome their presence.
“We can’t let you go alone. The two of you aren’t prepared to fight this battle on your own,” Mrs. Twiggs argued.
It saddened me to say, but Mrs. Twiggs needed to hear the truth. All the ladies needed to hear the truth. They gathered around me, all in a semicircle. “We only have one chance to defeat the darkness and that is for Abigail to enter the portal. There’s just too many, and they are too powerful. We can’t fight them and survive. Some of you would perish on the trail. I can’t let that happen. If we fall, you will be the last defense of Asheville.”
“Very well, Terra,” Mrs. Twiggs said.
The ladies laid their hands on Abigail, offering what they could from their magic to protect us. Mrs. Raintree sang a Cherokee blessing; Mrs. Birchbark held Abigail’s hand. Her goddess mother Kuan Yin eased Abigail’s suffering for Abigail’s heart was broken.
Mrs. Stickman ran outside, and with a wave of her hand, the dark clouds disappeared, filling the sky with stars. She turned to Abigail. “To help light your way,” she said with a smile.
Mrs. Branchworthy placed a small stone in Abigail’s hand. Abigail stared at it, knowing she could make her own fire, but Mrs. Branchworthy said, “You’ll know what to do and when to use this.” She put the stone in the front flap of her backpack.
Mrs. Bartlett handed Abigail her silver knife. Abigail slid it into her boot. Mrs. Bowers’, descendant of Rhiannon, Queen Witch, said, “I’ve been summoning the magic of the wee ones.” As she spoke, a dragonfly flew into the room and landed on Abigail’s shoulder. Abigail smiled and put her finger up to the dragonfly. It climbed onto it, a beautiful fluorescent blue with iridescent flapping wings. “If you need us, send the dragonfly,” she said.
Mrs. Loblolly handed Abigail a compass, a very old and battered one. “This will help you find your way home. It doesn’t point north. It points to your loved ones. It’s drawn to our love for you, so you will always find us,” she said.
Mrs. Twiggs reached in her cloak and pulled out an apophyllite pendant like the one she had given Detective Willows. She put it around Abigail’s neck and whispered an incantation in a language I didn’t
recognize. “Take care,” she then said.
We turned back for one last glance at Pixel. Tracker sat, staring at Pixel and let out a mournful howl. Then he turned and followed us out. He would not leave Abigail’s side.
We left without looking back. After several hours of walking from downtown Asheville to the outskirts of Hendersonville, Abigail sat on a park bench. “Terra, I can summon a car or motorcycle or plane. Why do we have to walk? There’s no time.”
“This is the way Agatha Hollows found the portal.” I gazed at the stars. “Each step we take down her path unlocks her magic.” I questioned myself the whole time we walked. Could we do this? I was a cat, Abigail a mere girl. I had made it to the river with the lieutenant and had just enough magic to turn him to flesh. I thought of what waited in the water for those on this journey without the magic to cross. We continued our trek keeping to the woods. By the end of the first day, we camped on the bank of the Green River. Abigail gathered firewood. She took a can of beans and heated it over the flame. I walked along the bank, staring at the water rushing by and thought about the lieutenant. I could feel his new skin under my claws. Agatha Hollows had cast a spell that lowered the river and raised stepping-stones so we could walk across. I didn’t remember that spell. I tried for years to remember the exact words she spoke, but they were jumbled in my head. The stones retracted when I crossed with the lieutenant. Flutter landed on my back. She tried to speak to me. I knew she was talking, but I couldn’t understand her. I had never tried speaking to creatures of her kind. I spoke with cats and dogs, squirrels but never insects. I thought them beneath me. How proud was I? Me, a cat—no a witch cat. Whatever Flutter was now, she still had traces of her ancient magic running through her blood. She had drained all her powers on Pixel. She was the reason that Pixel had premonitions, that Pixel united the coven circle. Now the color had gone from her wings, faded. She looked pale and sickly. Like my dear friend Pixel, she was dying.
Abigail handed me a plate. I ate around the beans, chewing on the pork. She took out her phone, examining the picture of the painting. “Terra, what are the chances that these flowers painted over a hundred years ago are still growing wild?”
I said, “They’re enchanted, Abigail. They will be there.” I said half believing myself. Mankind had stomped all over this earth, bringing their devastation, their machines, their pollution. I closed my eyes and nestled up to Abigail. She pulled the blanket up tight, a cool spring night. The fire felt comforting; the owls sang us to sleep. The owls that Mrs. Birchbark sent to watch over us. I had seen Mrs. Lund following far behind us, watching over her shoulder. She had kept the form of the bloodhound so she could follow our scent without giving us away to whichever of the lieutenant’s minions followed us.
“Terra, wake up,” Abigail whispered. I opened my eyes. It was still dark. I focused into the woods. I saw dozens of red eyes staring out at us. Tracker stood at attention, emitting a low growl. The first creature stepped slowly into the clearing. It was the size and shape of a coyote, but it was without fur. Its skin was the color of mud, and it smelled rancid. It let out a low, deep growl. Tracker answered back, lunging toward it, baring his teeth. The others crawled out of the woods and surrounded us. Abigail grabbed the stone from her backpack. It glowed red hot. She held it high, and fireballs shot out engulfing the hounds. The leader backed up. She raised her hand and spoke “Back into the dark I send you.” The creatures yelped in pain and stepped slowly back into the woods except for one. It wriggled in pain as its body jerked. Its bones cracked as it grew twice its size. Abigail repeated, “Back into the dark, I send you.” The creature inched its way forward toward Abigail until it was just a few feet in front of us. Abigail grabbed the silver blade from her boot and stabbed at its face. The creature grabbed the blade and threw it to the side. “Terra, I can’t stop this creature. What is it?”
“The humans call it a hellhound.” I thought about how Agatha Hollows had killed a similar beast, but before I could tell Abigail, it lunged at her. She waved her hand, sending it tumbling into the water. It jumped out and headed back toward her. From out of the woods, the bloodhound ran out. Tracker and Mrs. Lund bit and tore at its rancid flesh. Agatha Hollows’s dogs had killed a beast like this. They were bred to be immune to the poison of its bite. Descendant of the dogs that walked beside the earth walkers, millions of years before the humans, Tracker chased the hound into the woods. Abigail watched through Tracker’s eyes as he killed each beast one by one. Mrs. Lund lay with her side wide open in the form of the bloodhound, then she shifted into her real self. The black veins of poison twisted around her body from the wounds. Abigail ran to her, pressing her hands against her wounds, trying to stop the bleeding.
Mrs. Lund smiled. “This is me, Abigail.” She was a beautiful elflike creature, slender with white-blond hair the color of Abigail’s, her eyes, the color of milky-blue opals. “The lieutenant is waiting at the bridge. I kept him off your trail. He can’t enter the portal, but he wants to stop you from entering.” Her light extinguished, her body turned to dust, then blew into the wind.
Tracker ran up to Abigail, his white fur turned red. Abigail frantically checked him for wounds, relieved to find the blood wasn’t his. She hugged him and rocked him in her arms. He wigged his tailless butt and lifted his lip with a smile. He kissed her on the face. I couldn’t hold back. I jumped on him and hugged him, rubbing my scent against his neck. The sun was rising. “Time to go.”
Chapter 36
The Road to Dark Corner
Abigail finished cleaning the blood off Tracker. She picked up Flutter, who was laying on a rock by the water. I paced back and forth along the shore, remembering how Agatha put one foot in front of the other, causing the stepping-stones to rise out of the water. With the morning sun I could see what was swimming under the surface. Like the hellhounds that roamed the woods on the trail to Poinsett Bridge, the water held other demons. Razor-sharp teeth and black soulless-eyed eels unseen to humans, harmless to all but those who walked the trail to the portal. I hadn’t told Abigail that for every piece of white magic we picked up along the way a piece of black magic followed us. Newton was right when he said for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Time and space are a rubber band, as you stretch it into the future from the present it snaps back into the past the same as magic. The guardians of the trail were waiting to devour not just our flesh but our true light. Tracker growled at them.
“Settle,” Abigail said. “You don’t want to fight them.”
“Step onto the water, Abigail,” I told her.
She looked down as one of the creatures raised its head above the water, snapping at us. She glanced at me.
“Believe, Abigail, you have to believe.”
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and before she could stop herself she stepped out into the water. As she did the first stone rose up to greet her foot. She opened her eyes, balancing herself on the rock as the creatures swam around her, snapping and hissing. She took another step; the next stone rose. I leaped into her arms. Each step she took another stone rose out of the water. Tracker hopped from rock to rock behind us until we reached the far shore. Then the rocks and the creatures disappeared into the deep, cold water.
Abigail took Flutter out of her pocket and raised her hand to the sky. She floated to a bright red hibiscus. And then crisscrossed to an orange one. It was the path from the painting. We followed behind her, marking her way exactly. I could feel the gathering magic around us. We wound our way through the narrow trail, avoiding rocks, holes. We walked this way for miles, following Flutter, swatting at the bees that buzzed around our heads, passing by the North Saluda reservoir until we reached Callahan Mountain Road. The last time I had walked this road it was part of the dirt path of the Asheville Highway. Now it was paved with the occasional car speeding past us. We reached Poinsett Bridge at twilight; all the visitors had left. Or at least the human visitors. I could feel the presence of the others, the ghosts who
lingered at the bridge attracted by the energy of the portal, moths to the light.
The humans never ventured here after dark. To them Poinsett Bridge was the most haunted bridge in all of the Carolinas, maybe even the south. We stopped and stared at the bridge, a light fog rising off the stream running through it as the night air cooled off the ground. And then the voices began, some of them crying, others yelling. Apparitions came out of the woods, walking endlessly back and forth over the bridge, their misery dragging behind them like Marley’s ghost. At the top of the bridge stood the lieutenant. In his hand he held the head of the young private who tried to warn me at the Biltmore. He tossed the head into the stream. He lifted his sword, and an army of lost souls marched from all sides, surrounding us. Deserters, turncoats, the unforgiven of the war. Abigail clutched her grandmother’s amulet around her neck. As she twirled around, a bright light spun in a circle until it became a twister, lifting the undead army into it. Tracker leaped and bit at them, lunging at the ground, twisting and turning trying to grasp flesh that wasn’t there. The lieutenant cracked his whip at Tracker, who screamed in pain and fell into the water. I ran to the bridge and clawed my way to the top. I stood on the edge.
“Stop,” I cried out.
“Take me into the portal,” the lieutenant said. His sword glistened in the moonlight. It was neither a man when I first met him or a ghost when I had seen him last. He was the darkness that had taken the fairies. He smiled his rotting smile. “You understand that I can end you, don’t you? Not just this body you’re trapped in but your witch’s light forever?”
