The Witches of Dark Root: Daughters of Dark Root: Book One (The Daughters of Dark Root) (5 page)

I pushed the thoughts out of my head as I worked my hair into a long braid. Braving one final peek into the mirror, I sighed. In my long white dress I looked like The Michelin Man or a well-fed ghost.

There were voices outside, ambling towards the meeting hall. I had spent the last several weeks creating and posting fliers in and around Brunsville and the surrounding towns. It looked like our advertising was paying off.

But still, no sign of Michael.

Finally, I could wait no more.

I left my room and made my way outside, picking my way across the paved road that led to the old grange hall. I passed the smaller buildings that lined the road, recently constructed shacks where some of our married couples lived. The lights in their windows were turned off, evidence that they were already at the revival. When I was within a few feet of the grange hall, I heard Michael’s unmistakable voice coming from inside.

I stopped in the doorway, collecting myself.

Something had felt wrong all night, and now I knew why. Michael was sitting in his appointed chair at the center of the table. But lounging next to him––in my spot!––was Leah. They didn’t notice me and I watched as she laughed, touching his arm whenever he spoke. Her hair was pinned back, accentuating her rodent-esque features, and she wore a short, toga-style dress that made my own look Amish.

“Sister Maggie,” Michael said, rising as I stomped towards the Council table. He smiled easily, as if everything were normal. “Ready to make some magic?”

“What is she doing here?” I demanded, turning my gaze on Leah. “She’s not a Council member. And that’s my seat.”

Michael wiped invisible crumbs off the table with the tips of his fingers.

“She is going to be my assistant, Maggie. She’s taking notes and giving us feedback on how things go tonight. Your report was quite...disconcerting...to say the least. She thought we might need an outside perspective on things.”

“The Council met without me?” I stared at him, mouth open.
 

One of the fluorescent lights flickered overhead and everyone around our table shifted uneasily.
 

“You can’t have a Council meeting without me!” I said. “I’m a Senior Council member and it was my report! I waited for you in
our
bedroom.”

“I apologize,” Michael said. “I must have misunderstood. I thought you were just delivering the bad news. If I had known that you wanted to be more involved, we would have waited. We can talk it over after, okay?”

His voice was calm. Pragmatic.

I turned my eyes on Leah. Outside perspective, my ass. I had been raised in a family of women. I knew what she was doing, even if Michael didn’t. I stepped forward, ready to pounce. She looked down like a dog that had been caught peeing on a rug.

“She can’t have my seat!” I hissed.
 

Leah scrambled out of the way and I took my spot.

“...This is my chair, not hers,” I repeated.

Michael motioned to a fold-up chair at the end of the table and Leah took it.

She pulled a pen and a notebook out of her bag and gripped them in her nervous little hands. It took every ounce of dignity I could muster to keep myself from yanking the notebook away from her and using it as a weasel swatter.

“Save that energy for the meeting, babe.” Michael slid back into his seat and patted my hand, which I yanked away.

At this moment, I wasn’t his
babe
. At this particular moment I was Maggie Maddock, the
only
woman on the Council of Five, and second only to the bastard leader of Woodhaven. I wasn’t about to let him pretend to control me, so that his cronies would know I was ‘in check.’ My teeth chattered, though I wasn’t cold.

Jason appeared, taking his seat next to me, offering me a sympathetic look.

The hall filled with members who positioned themselves strategically around the room and strangers who shuffled in, taking up the remaining seats. I counted twenty newcomers and willed a serene look onto my face. It wasn’t easy. I had a lot to say to Michael and Leah, but we had all worked too hard for this night for me to lose it now.

“Good haul,” Jason whispered, and I nodded.

If we recruited even one person, this event was a success.

I leaned back, lacing my fingers behind my head. Michael gave me his ‘please-don’t-do-that-look,’ which I ignored. It was my marketing campaign that had brought them all in. I deserved to be smug.

Someone coughed, our cue that the revival was about to begin.

The overhead lights dimmed, replaced by a solitary yellow spotlight that landed on Brother Robert, a large, doughy man at the rear of the room. He wore a grey suit that was too tight in the chest and too short in the legs. He was sweating already, and the spotlight amplified the liquid beads that were forming across his forehead. He stood quietly, waiting until every eye was upon him, before raising his stubby fingers to the sky. Tiny sparks shot from his fingertips that no one else seemed to see.
 

“Are you ready?" he asked the crowd, hands still raised as he squinted against the spotlight. “Are you ready to change your lives?"

At first, his voice was so low that the audience leaned forward, straining to hear him.

This was rehearsed, a script he never strayed from.

Brother Robert repeated his question, “Are you ready to change your lives?” louder this time. Several people, mostly Woodhaven members, nodded. The remainder sat quietly, unsure of what to do.

Brother Robert was undeterred by the silence.

He took one lumbering step forward, and then another, the spotlight never leaving him as he made his way towards our table at the front of the room.

“Are you ready..." He stopped halfway through his march, scanning the crowd. “...To witness a miracle?”

There were some enthusiastic affirmations from the crowd, as well as a few snickers.

Along with the curious and the ‘I-want-to-believe’-ers, there were always those who came just to mock us. These were the people who got my ire up. Even if I thought the stuff was crazy at times, I didn’t like anyone else making fun of us.

Michael insisted I keep my composure, and use the anger for my part in the presentation later. Sometimes I wondered if he planted them there.

Brother Robert ignored the chuckles and resumed his walk.

The rumble of his footsteps, made possible by his passion and considerable size, grew with each stride. He pointed fingers at various faces, accusing them of sinning without saying a word. They shuffled uncomfortably in their seats, but no one made a move to leave. When he was within a few feet of our table, he quickly swerved back towards the crowd, his face arranging itself into an expression of excitement.

“We are told that we are all entitled to the
pursuit
of happiness, a job we take seriously. Am I right?” Several people nodded and laughed. “We work 40, 50, 60 hours a week to make the money to buy this
happiness
. We spend our paychecks on restaurants, new clothes, vacations. We tell ourselves we deserve these things. And when that doesn’t work, when we still aren’t happy after spending all our money on what we are
supposed
to want, we spend our money on things to fix us, like prescription pills and therapy. And yet, happiness still eludes us...”

He paused dramatically.

“...No matter how many hours we work or things we buy,” he continued. “Happiness keeps slipping through our fingers. Why? Because, despite everything you’ve been spoon-fed since childhood, working and spending isn’t what makes a person happy. It’s a trick. A diversion
away
from happiness. Real happiness comes through faith. Faith in yourself. Faith in your neighbor. Faith in a higher power...”

“Amen!” someone hollered.

"You came here to change your lives because you knew that there was something fundamentally missing from it...a huge void in the soul. So let’s start. Stand up now. Get on your feet.” Brother Robert gestured for everyone to rise. “Stand up if you’re ready to leave behind the tribulations of this earthly world. Stand up if you are ready to get off the treadmill of work and spending. Stand up if you're ready to begin anew!"

Even though I wasn’t on ‘the treadmill,’ I had to resist the urge to stand up.

Brother Robert had a way about him; under the right circumstances, he could move mountains. Michael had found him preaching in a small, non-denominational church in Alabama, and though it cost us a small fortune to feed him, Michael had never regretted his decision. Robert’s power was short-lived, however, as he tired quickly, and could never run a full service.

But he was one hell of an opening act.

One by one, the audience took to their feet as Brother Robert continued speaking––clapping, stomping, cheering, and nodding. Even those who had been reluctant in the beginning joined in, caught in the fervor of Brother Robert’s charisma. An energy ran through the room, touching one person and ricocheting onto the next.

I wanted to squeeze Michael's leg, to show him that Woodhaven was going to be okay, but I was still mad at him. I tightened my hand into a fist to prevent it from slipping onto his thigh.

Eventually, Brother Robert lowered his hands, gesturing for the crowd to take their seats.

Hesitantly, they obliged.

Robert leaned a heavy hand onto our table as sweat rolled down his face. He inhaled deeply, catching his breath.
 

“...But friends,” he said, wiping his brow with the back of his free arm. “It’s not me you’ve come to see. I am here only as a messenger. Without further hesitation, I bring to you the true Master of Miracles, a dear friend and the man who saved me...Brother Michael."

Robert backed away, sneaking into the sidelines, as the spotlight fell quietly on Michael.

The audience clapped uneasily, unwilling to trade Brother Robert for the unremarkable-looking man who didn’t raise his eyes, but sat silently doodling with his index finger on the table. People shuffled in their seats and asked each other if there was some mistake, but Michael appeared unaware.
 

At last the crowd grew quiet. Only the scritch-scritch of Michael’s fingertips on the plastic table could be heard.

My knees began to shake and my fingers tingled. Michael was gathering energy; I could feel him pulling it from the crowd. Nervous energy, collected, bundled, and stored for the main event. The hairs on his arms rose, indicating that he was almost full. It was trickling into my space but I pushed it away. Nervous energy made me sick.

The spotlight faded, replaced by the main overhead lights and we adjusted our eyes to accommodate the brightness.

Michael lingered in his chair, as if contemplating whether or not we were worthy of his message. At last he rose, gradually sliding his lean body into full view of the audience, his ascension a meticulous and calculated event. The table shook, hardly enough to cause a waver in a cup of coffee, but I noticed. My body trembled along with it.

It had been a long time since Michael had exhibited such power, and I was awed.

A weary smile crept across Michael’s face as he surveyed the room.

Despite the theatrics, Michael’s heart was in the right place: He really did want to save the world. I felt a wave of love for him; I couldn’t help it. When he applied himself, Michael had this ability to make you feel love. For him, for yourself, for the entire fucking universe. I would follow him off a goddamned cliff, if he said that’s what I needed to do right now.

I closed my eyes to block it, determined to stay angry. The crystal he had given me in the grocery store pulsed against my chest. I clenched it, breathing in and out, calming us both.

Everyone sat spellbound, feeding off of Michael’s calm, loving energy.

Only Jason seemed to have his wits. He looked at me, checking in. I nodded back, sure that no one else would notice. Michael, in his element, was hard to ignore.

Then, with a practiced, ethereal voice, he spoke, looking and sounding just like a prophet.

“I was lost once,” he began, his face and arms tanned and perfect against his white, button-down shirt. “But then...” His eyes moved to something far away and invisible. “...But then, I was given a message...from God. And God said...”

He stopped. Pausing for effect.

“God said, ‘Michael, you cannot keep living like this. You cannot keep filling your body with junk and expecting it to function as it should. You cannot keep plugging into the technical ‘necessities’ of life, and not expect your body to suffer power shock. You cannot keep stock piling material items to make your life meaningful...’”