Dark Corner Page 8

  “No, Abigail,” I said.

  “I can kill it, Terra,” she said.

  “Slowly back into the cabin and close the door,” I said, keeping my eyes on the pit viper. Abigail did as I told her.

  “I could have killed it, Terra,” she said.

  “Yes, but if you had, its mate and offspring would come back and take its vengeance. It will leave on its own,” I told her. “Count the number of rings on its rattle.”

  “Five,” Abigail said as she stared out the window.

  “That’s the number of times that rattler has shed its skin, meaning that it could have up to twenty offspring. That’s a lot to haunt us, Abigail.”

  We waited for the snake to uncoil itself and slither away. After it left, we headed outside, this time with Pixel tagging along. We followed the stream, searching for herbs essential to our potion.

  “Abigail, wait a moment.” I pointed out a tall green plant with bright orange-and-red flowers growing along the bank. “Abigail, this is jewelweed or wild impatience. It contains a natural soaplike chemical. Its scientific name is saponin. It works like an anti-inflammatory. When you apply the juice of the flower on your skin, it’s good for mosquito bites, chigger bites, and even poison ivy.”

  As we strolled, I pointed out many of the plants that Agatha Hollows had shown me. “This unassuming green weed is called broadleaf plantain. It’s also good for insect bites. It grows everywhere.” I saw some yellowroot, growing along some rocks. “Abigail, you see this leaf, it’s triangular with feathered edges.”

  “Yes, Terra.”

  “It’s called yellowroot and is good for upset stomachs. It releases a chemical called berberine. It helps with mouth sores and bacteria.” I kept looking while we walked. “This tree is a dogwood, Abigail. It grows all over the Carolinas. They make a tea from the inner bark to help with migraines and reduce fever. It contains a chemical called cornic acid which is similar to the chemical used in aspirin.”

  Pixel listened in, eager to learn. He nibbled at each plant as I taught Abigail. “Abigail, everything you need to survive you can find in these woods. You can’t always count on your magic.”

  Abigail sat on a log. I leaped up next to her. “As powerful as you are, Abigail, there are limits to your magic. Each time you use your magic, you enter a refractory period giving your body time to recharge. The more elaborate the magic, the longer the refractory period. One day you might need to survive without your magic, you understand?”

  “Of course, Terra. I survived on the street for years without using magic, just my wits and good looks,” she said with a wink.

  We came across the first ingredient for our potion, its white flowers pointed upward similar to a daisy. “Abigail this is bloodroot. Take a pinch. It has many uses including inducing vomiting, emptying the bowels, and reducing tooth pain. However, we need it to open the blood vessels to help absorb the rest of the potion.” I stopped at the next plant, a long white flowered plant that resembled a pipe cleaner. “We need a thimbleful of black cohosh. Just a thimbleful because it might upset our stomachs. It’s another blood conditioner.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” Abigail said.

  “The ladies used it when they were going through the change of life to help with hot flashes. It’s also known as rattlerot,” I said passing my knowledge onto her. We spent the rest of the day, identifying plants and herbs until we gathered all our ingredients.

  “Terra, have you seen Pixel lately?”

  “Come to think of it. I have not. He was with us, examining each plant.” I sniffed the air but could not smell him. I was worried.

  “Pixel,” Abigail shouted as we traced back our steps until we heard Pixel’s laughter. We followed his sounds into a clearing where we saw him running in circles. He stopped out of breath.

  “Terra, come run.” He caught his breath and then continued his sprint around.

  “What’s he doing, Terra?”

  I stepped closer to him. Pixel had found a fairy ring, at least that’s what the mountain folk called it. It was a large growth of mushrooms in a perfect circle at least thirty feet across. He finally exhausted his energy and plopped down in front of me. “Terra mushrooms.”

  Abigail knelt down and examined one of the mushrooms. “Terra, why do they grow in a circle like that?”

  “Part of the fungus that grows in the ground absorbs the nutrients in the soil. This breaks down larger molecules into smaller ones. The fungus continues to move outward as it exhausts all the nutrients in the center of the circle. The center dies forming a living ring around it as the mushrooms grow farther away from the dead earth.”

  Abigail started to step inside the circle. I knocked into her and she stumbled. “Don’t do that.”

  “Why not, Terra?”

  “The mountain folk believed that the fairy ring was a result of pixies or witches dancing in a circle at night.”

  Abigail laughed. “Well, I’m a witch.”

  “Better not to step inside,” I told her. “According to Appalachian folklore, it could be a trap.”

  “C’mon, a trap?” Abigail stuck one toe inside the circle to aggravate me. She began to shake as if she were possessed.

  “It’s not funny, Abigail. Haven’t you seen enough magic to know that anything is possible?”

  She pulled her foot back quickly. “I guess you’re right, Terra. Better not to take chances.”

  As we finished talking, I saw Pixel on his hind legs, dancing in the circle. “Me fairy.”

  Abigail looked at me, and then she jumped in the circle, grabbing on to Pixel’s front paws as if they were waltzing. Pixel couldn’t stop laughing. Abigail burst into laughter. I stuck one paw in the circle and sniffed the ground. I had seen mushrooms grow like this all over the mountains. It probably was what it was—just mushrooms. I jumped in the circle and joined the dance. Tracker danced around the outside, barking.

  When we got back to the cabin, Abigail started up the stairs, then stopped, searching for the rattlesnake. Thankfully it had not returned. She hurried into the kitchen and measured all the ingredients for the potion.

  “Terra?” Pixel’s voice was quizzical.

  “Yes, Pixel.”

  “What you make?”

  “Abigail is making a special potion for you and me.”

  “What for?”

  “It’s called a forget-me potion. It helps people not see us, rather they see us but forget we shouldn’t be there.”

  “Be where, Terra?”

  “Anywhere, Pixel, that cats shouldn’t be.”

  “They no like cats?”

  “Of course, Pixel, everyone loves cats, but if we drink this potion, we won’t have to wear our emotional support animal vest.”

  “Me like vest.”

  “Yes, I know you like the vest, Pixel, but even so this will allow us to be with Abigail.”

  “Me love Abigail.”

  “We all love Abigail, Pixel.”

  “Terra?”

  “Yes, Pixel.”

  “You’re a good dancer,” he said before swatting me. I chased him around the cabin.

  Chapter 15

  May Day

  “Terra, every time I come here I can’t help but think of Bryson,” Abigail said as she strung lights around the tables on the ground of the Village Green. It was here she had met her watcher, Bryson, who had met a tragic end. Now he appeared when Abigail was in danger. She had not yet learned how to summon him, but he was always watching over her as were others she was not aware of, some good, some evil.

  Mrs. Loblolly and Mrs. Raintree fixed the May Day pole in the center of the ground. Pixel chased the brightly colored ribbons that hung from it. I heard his giggles. He was so easily amused. The ladies scolded him as they strung the ribbons. The lawn was immense, the interior reserved for the May Day pole. White-clad tables had been set up around the pole. A stage was erected toward the front. I could hear the strains of music as the local orchestra warmed up, and in t
he far corner a large tent containing food and drink tables.

  “What a glorious day,” Mrs. Twiggs said as she placed a cake in the center of the sweets table. She had outdone herself. The table was festooned with trays of iced cookies in bright pinks, purples, and yellows. Hundreds of flowers adorned the tables and the grounds. The sails of the large tent billowed in the breeze. People gathered, walking about the grounds. May Day had become a festive holiday in Asheville. Traditions ran deep in the Western North Carolina Mountains. The Ladies of the Biltmore Society had always been part of the celebration. This year it took on a new meaning as they were just awakening to their Wiccan powers. The coven sat before me at a long table decorated with daisies, greeting all the folks. All dressed in flowered sundresses and the sign of a true Lady of the Biltmore Society member, a festive hat. Each lady had fastened real flowers to their hats for the celebration, trying to outdo the other. There were eight ladies in all, including dear Mrs. Twiggs.

  First at the table, donned in a bright orange sundress and her large sunhat piled high with daisies, sat Jean Branchworthy. A descendant of the Celtic fire goddess Aodh, she had the power to summon fire. A powerful white witch, Aodh hurled fireballs at the invading Romans. Aodh understood the alchemy of harvesting the powers of the sun. She summoned that power through her fingertips. In the short time since her turning, Mrs. Branchworthy had made great strides in harnessing her goddess mother’s power. She had tucked her long black hair up into her sunhat. There had been whispers in town about the remarkable changes in all the ladies of the Biltmore Society. While their outward appearance was worn like a cloak, their endless energy gave them away. Each lady saw their true self in the mirror: young, vibrant, beautiful. Mrs. Branchworthy had much to celebrate this May Day. Restoration on her turn-of-the-century farmhouse was complete. After her husband had passed, Mrs. Branchworthy had continued the project. Her ten-acre farm in the middle of the Biltmore Forest was worth a fortune to developers, but instead of growing ten-thousand-square-foot mansions, she grew berries and cabbages and corn to stock the Asheville food pantry.

  Next to Mrs. Branchworthy sat Doris Stickman. Though her African ancestors were brought to America as slaves, her bloodline went further back, deep into the Fertile Crescent to the Egyptians, past the Mesopotamians to the earth walkers, the white witches of prehuman history. Descended from the goddess Oya, Mrs. Stickman could control the wind and bring on storms. Her dark skin glistened in the warm spring sun; her white dress complemented her. She adjusted her large organza hat filled with camellias. Her long, delicate fingers adjusted each flower to make sure it was perfect. I had spent many nights at her estate, reading her first editions. My favorite was the story of Harriet Tubman. I had only seen Ms. Tubman twice, once when she was alive, the second when she wasn’t.

  Nupur Bartlett stood, prim and proper, elegantly dressed in a Lily Pulitzer sage-green sundress; her red velvet hat had a silver stickpin and blue forget-me-nots. A descendant of the Indian goddess Kali, Mrs. Bartlett was our warrior. After her turning, I had given her a special silver knife forged by Agatha Hollows. When wielded by Mrs. Bartlett, that knife struck fear in the heart of evil. She had not used it yet but kept it close.

  Gwendolyn Birchbark, a Southern lady of distinction, one of the few women in Asheville that still spoke with a Southern drawl. An ancestor of Kuan Yin, the Chinese goddess of mercy and compassion, Mrs. Birchbark exuded calm in her pale blue silk sundress and matching hat decorated with blue starflowers. She held a very special power, which at face value might not seem as such, the power of compassion, self-sacrifice. Qualities that black magic feared. Kuan Yin gave up eternal paradise to ease the suffering of others. Mrs. Birchbark’s same qualities would protect us from dark magic. She commanded the owls that surrounded her property. Owls were always a friend of the Wiccan and kept watch and brought news of danger. She was small in stature and bore the politeness of her Chinese heritage.

  She chatted with Caroline Bowers, a direct descendant of the white witch Rhiannon, one of the greatest of all witch queens. Mrs. Bowers was royalty. Rhiannon could manifest dreams and desires. She used the forest fairies and nymphs to cast dreams and fulfill wishes upon the deserving. About her estate flickered many fireflies, morphed from fairies of some century. Butterflies, dragonflies, and fireflies all at one time in their genetic history were fairies. Much like the loved children’s character Tinker Bell, humans had stopped believing in fairies. Now they fly about us shadows of a memory. Her multicolored sundress swirled around her, and her large linen hat was garnished with pink, lavender, and red roses.

  June Loblolly, beautiful, the former model, her once golden locks now black with the silver streak the same as that of her Wiccan sisters. No one had questioned when the Biltmore ladies appeared with black hair with a silver streak, thinking it to be part of the secret society not aware that they had become their full Wiccan selves. She sat quietly, playing with her necklace, gold and amber, a gift from her Viking foremother, the Norse goddess Freya, who had sacrificed her love to obtain that necklace. Odin had cursed her to walk the earth searching for her lost love; her tears on the earth turned into gold, then into the sea and became amber. Unlike the other ladies, June did not marry into a fortune. She built her own worth through hard work and determination. In front of her were jars of her fortune, her branded jelly and preserves. Mrs. Loblolly had the power to guide, to lead others out of darkness, to lead us to the truth. Her sunlit yellow dress danced around her long legs; her hat adorned with daffodils took on a cheerful air.

  At the end of the table sat Wanda Raintree. Her witch mother was the goddess Elinhino, the earth mother. One of the sisters of the trinity, Sehu was goddess of corn and Igavhinkl goddess of the sun. Mrs. Raintree had constructed dream catchers for all the ladies to prevent black magic from entering their rooms at night. She was proud of her Cherokee heritage. Her dark black hair hung long underneath her wide hat adorned with wildflowers. Her traditional sundress was red with white strips and bore the resemblance of a tear dress, the dresses that the Cherokee women made during their forced march out of North Carolina when the army forbade them scissors.

  Mrs. Twiggs, Beatrice, sat at the opposite end of the long table, greeting everyone. She wore a simple purple cotton sundress, her wide brim straw hat garnished with lavender roses. It was the same hat she wore for gardening. Her turning had been the most remarkable of all the ladies. The once large woman of eighty years now moved with elegance and grace. Her sparkling eyes, her warm smile, enchanted all who had the pleasure of meeting her. She had the power of premonition. Unlike the other ladies, I could not identify her patron goddess. Since her turning, she had many premonitions but had not learned how to decipher their meanings. I had hoped Agatha Hollows’s potion would bring her clarity, but without the right hogweed the potion was not complete or effective.

  Detective Willows came up to Mrs. Twiggs. It was strange to see him out of his standard-issue suit. He was wearing aqua-blue Bermuda shorts, a button-down white shirt half untucked, black socks and sandals. He smiled at Mrs. Twiggs.

  “Butch, I’m so glad you came,” she said as she noticed him eying the cookies. She picked up the plate and presented it to him. He grabbed three or possibly four.

  “You know I can’t say no to your special double chocolate cookies. You’ve done quite the job.”

  “Thank you, Butch.”

  “Can we talk?”

  “Sure.” Mrs. Twiggs stood up.

  I followed behind as they went into the tent; no one noticed me. Abigail’s spell, the forget-me spell, appeared to be working. I was grateful I did not have to wear the itchy ESA vest.

  More tables were set up inside facing a small stage for local music acts. They sat in the front row on the folding chairs. Detective Willows’s chair creaked with annoyance. I sat under Mrs. Twiggs’s chair.

  “Now, Butch, what brings you here?” Mrs. Twiggs asked.

  “We contacted the University of Richmond, trying to locate ne
xt of kin for Mrs. Lund. They have no records of a Mrs. Lund there.”

  “I don’t understand.” Mrs. Twigs shook her head. “The Biltmore hired her for the Civil War exhibit. Surely they would have checked her references.”

  Detective Willows finished his third cookie and cleared his throat. “Actually, there’s no record anywhere of a Belinda Lund. I ran her fingerprints and images of her face through our recognition program.”

  “And?”

  “And she doesn’t exist. At least not in any known database.”

  My fur stood up on the back of my neck. The sense of foreboding returned.

  “I don’t understand. Why was she here? And why would someone kill her?”

  “We’re still investigating.”

  “What happened to your retirement?”

  “Retirement. I’ll retire when I’m old,” he said with a laugh. “The Biltmore Estate was good to Annabelle, and it’s important to Asheville.”

  Mrs. Twiggs smiled and placed her hand on top of his. Annabelle Willows sat a respectful four rows back. She was now part of the Biltmore Estate. As many who passed away in Asheville, she clung to the things she loved most in life. First her husband, Butch. The second being the Biltmore Estate where she had worked as a tour guide. Detective Willows couldn’t retire until he felt the Biltmore and the people around it were safe, and Mrs. Willows couldn’t continue on her journey until Mr. Willows completed his.

  Mrs. Twiggs darted her eyes behind Mr. Willows and smiled at Annabelle, who disappeared.

  “I need to speak with Mrs. Loblolly. I understand that she was partially responsible for bringing Mrs. Lund to Asheville,” Detective Willows said.

  With the news of Mrs. Lund, I felt an urgency to complete Agatha’s premonition potion. We were in the dark to the events happening around us.

  As I thought about the potion, I felt a goose walk over my grave, a phrase I had heard during my childhood. I ran outside. Off in the distance I saw him, the rocking chair man, the apparition I had seen rocking on Karen Owen’s porch, opening and closing his timepiece, reminding me of the coming darkness. He stood tall and thin, dark sockets where his eyes should have been, dressed in his morning coat, his praying mantis legs stepping slowly out of the woods toward me. Karen Owen, Mrs. Owen, appeared standing over me. She reached down and whispered, “Pay him no mind.”