The Witches of Dark Root: Daughters of Dark Root: Book One (The Daughters of Dark Root) (48 page)

She placed a dollar on the table and backed away.

I could chase her, I thought.

Beat her to a pulp and demand the page back from my mother’s spell book. But my plan could backfire and I might never get the anti-spell. Besides, there were families everywhere and we had worked too hard for me to blow it now. I would just have to play along.

“What is this artifact I’m supposed to bring?” I called to her.

“The circle,” she said. “I will find you tomorrow night, before the lighting ceremony.”

Leah slipped into the crowd then, disappearing.

A plump woman with gray hair took her seat at the table. “Great performance!” she beamed. “It all seemed so real!”

“Thank you,” I said, absently. “All part of the show.”

Twenty-Seven: American Pie

Dark Root, Oregon

November 1, 2002

The sun whittled its way through the branches and shone like a spotlight on the worn out path that Maggie and her family walked along. The first of November marked the passing of the Light Half of the year and the beginning of the Dark Half. It was tradition for Miss Sasha and her daughters to make one final pilgrimage into the woods on this day to take stock of what they had learned and plan for the winter to come.

When the girls were young, it was a fun event, almost like a camping excursion. There would be stories told and even marshmallows roasted as they huddled around the fire and listened to the wildlife.
 

But the girls were growing up now and the feeling was different. It had been several years since Ruth Anne had left and now Merry was saying she was going too, as soon as she turned eighteen. Even the steady crunch of brown leaves beneath Maggie’s feet couldn’t lighten her mood. There was a cavity in her head and heart that no amount of her mother’s banter could fill.

Maggie bent down to retrieve a leaf, so brown it was almost black. She crumbled it in her palm, letting the small bits sift through the cracks in her fingers. A wind blew, catching the fragments and sending them spiraling back into the woods. An owl hooted from one of the newly bare branches but Maggie didn’t jump.

She wasn’t scared anymore. Not of owls, or witchery. The only things she really feared were the dark and the feeling of loss, and she vowed to steer clear of both of them.

“Right here, girls,” her mother said, removing her black pointy hat.

She only wore the costume on two occasions, during Halloween and the day after, when they gathered as a family for communion. The girls had once joined their mother in dressing up, as well, but this year they trudged along in worn blue jeans and sweaters that had seen better days.

Maggie took a seat on the gray rock her mother had designated as her spot, situating herself so that the sharp angles of the stone didn’t cut her skin. Merry and Eve took seats next to her and the three faced their mother with somber eyes while their long hair whipped out around them. Merry eventually tucked the ends of her hair under her bottom, but Eve and Maggie let theirs fly.
 

Miss Sasha didn’t seem to notice how miserable the girls were, or if she did, she pretended not to. Instead she reached into a paper sack and passed around finger sandwiches, keeping one for herself. A cloud moved in front of the sun and she peered at the sky, a look that said she knew time here with her daughters was growing short.

“What was your favorite part of the festival?” she asked Merry as she removed the wrapping from her sandwich.

In the old days, Merry would say the candy apples or the haunted houses or something equally spooky and fun. This year Merry shrugged and said nothing.

“Eve?” Miss Sasha shifted her gaze to her youngest daughter.

“When it was all over,” Eve replied, cracking a near smile.

Their mother was undaunted and continued on to Maggie.

“I liked our float this year. It was nice.”

Maggie could feel her sisters’ stares turn to her.

Their ‘float’ was a ramshackle cart, haphazardly decorated with marigolds and leaves. It was the saddest float the girls had ever seen and Maggie had heard people laugh as it rolled through town. But Miss Sasha still sat at the head of it, waving her arms and smiling to the small assembly of people who had come.

Mother was losing not only her Magick, Maggie realized, but also her mind. And though Maggie was angry with her mother for many reasons, she couldn’t stand to see the one quality in her mother she had always admired slip away––pride.

“The decorations were nice, too,” she added for good measure.

“That’s marvelous, Maggie. And thank you. I worked very hard this year.” Miss Sasha paused, licking her lips. “Maybe we could work together on one next year. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

Maggie swallowed, wanting to cry. By next year, Merry would be gone.

“I don’t think I want to be involved in the festival anymore.” Maggie looked at her lap, surprised by her words. She was used to arguing with her mother, but this plain truthful confession made her feel very exposed.

“I'm not sure what you mean, dear,” her mother said, taking another bite of her sandwich.

Maggie couldn’t tell if she was genuinely confused or just playing one of her games.

“Our sister left,” Maggie said, careful not to mention Ruth Anne’s name. “Aunt Dora hardly comes around anymore. And now Merry’s leaving. The festival gets fewer visitors every year. We aren’t The Witches of Dark Root anymore. We are just...” Maggie choked, trying to get out the last embarrassing word. “...jokes.”

“I didn’t raise you like that,” her mother snapped, her voice as cutting as the winds.

“None of this is real.” Maggie shook her head, hoping to catch her mother in one of her few lucid moments. “Witchery isn’t real.”

“You can’t mean that!” Miss Sasha said. “After all you’ve seen?”

“Even if I did think that it was real, what use is it?” Maggie said. “I want a normal life, with a normal family.” She bowed her head, burying her face in her hands. Surely, her mother had to understand. She bit her lip so that she wouldn’t cry, then faced her mother again.
 

“Our life is a joke,” she finished.

“I’m sorry you feel that way.” Her mother crossed her arms, her face and arms drooping.

Maggie was prepared for her mother’s anger, but not her disappointment. She wanted to crawl under the rock she sat on.

Miss Sasha studied her other daughters. “Do you feel the same? Is our life is a joke to you, too?”

Eve looked down and Merry said nothing.

“I see,” their mother continued, far calmer than Maggie would have expected. “Well, I release you all, then. Maggie and Eve you are absolved of any future festival activities. You shall stay, go to school, and help out in the shop until you are of age. After that, do whatever you like. Merry, I wish you and Frank the best.”

Miss Sasha stood and gathered her skirt.
 

“...But don’t come crying to me.” She looked at each of them in turn. “When the darkness comes. Remember you were warned.”

With that, Miss Sasha disappeared down the path they had all come from.

Alone.

Harvest Home, Dark Root, Oregon

October 31, 2013

I was up with the ravens, watching them through my bedroom window as I slipped off my robe and pulled on the long, dark dress Eve had purchased for me.

The birds pecked at the table, fighting over invisible crumbs. When they felt me watching them, they turned, twelve black, unblinking eyes boring into me. I stared back, me against them, until a gust of wind ruffled their feathers and sent them flapping away. The smallest one turned his head, mid-air, as if to say it would return.

I shivered and closed the curtain.

The dress Eve had bought was several inches too wide and a foot too short.

I resisted the urge to grumble. I would only have to wear it today, then I could send it back to whatever thrift shop Eve had found it in. I pushed my feet into my black, satin slippers, then went downstairs.
 

Aunt Dora was standing in the kitchen entryway, waiting, arms crossed.

“Maggie, can I have a word wit’ ya?” she said.

I nodded, but I wasn’t exactly looking forward to this conversation. We had not spoken since the incident two days earlier, and I had no idea what she wanted to say. I followed her into the kitchen and sat down at the table. There was a stack of pancakes waiting for us along with two jars of her homemade preserves.

“Eve must be gone already,” I said, trying to make small talk as I placed a pancake on my plate. “I was going to talk to her about this dress, but...”

“Aye, dat she is. She wanted ta get up early an’ work on da float.” Aunt Dora’s eyes fixed on me, feeling me out. “I thought dis would be a good time ta catch ya, before ya head out.”

I moved my food around on my plate, listening.

“I shouldn’ o’ got my ire up wit’ ya. It wasn’t right. It’s just...well, Maggie. Der are things ya don’t know. Things we kep’ from ya. From all o’ ya. Not ta be mean. But because we had ta. ‘Til da time was right.”

I took a bite, chewing slowly.

Things they wanted to tell us when the time was right?

Aunt Dora poured herself a cup of tea. “Ta calm my nerves,” she said, her smile tense. I watched her add a long pour of honey to her drink. “...I can’t tell ya e’erything. Dat’s not my place. Dat’s yer ma’s.” Aunt Dora nodded, as if to confirm to herself that a chain of command had to be followed, no matter what her personal opinion on the matter. “...But I can let ya in on a few things.”

A tremor reached her hands and fingers, and the tea sloshed out of her cup.

I gently took the tea from her and placed it on the table. “Go on,” I said.

“Ya girls were all special,” she said, wringing her hands, her eyes darting around the room as if she thought we were being watched. “We knew dat, from da moment each o’ ya was born. But ya, Maggie Mae...ya were a force. Had da stronges’ powers o’ dem all. Yer ma thought she could tame ya, channel it. But like all children do, ya had yer own feelings about things. Ya were a wilder, and no matter what anyone says, dat’s not a bad thing. Ya just wern’t tamable.”

Aunt Dora’s eyes drooped and her face followed.

“I was a handful,” I agreed.

“Ya certainly were. Gave us fits! But ya were loved.” Aunt Dora paused, fanning herself with her hand. A fly landed on her plate and she shooed it away. “Ya were yer mother’s favorite. Maybe it was because da two o’ ya are so much alike. Full o’ pride and stubbornness, not wantin’ anyone’ ta tell ya what ta do.”

I had never considered myself to be like my mother. The thought made me uncomfortable and I pushed my plate to the side of the table.

“Yer mother was jus’ in o’er her head. It’s always easy ta raise da little ones but when dey get ol’er, dat’s a whole other story. She tried, best she could. But when Ruth Anne left, it almos’ broke da poor woman. Ev’rything she worked for, gone. We’re lucky she had any sanity after dat...”