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POOPHEAD189
Witch Hunt
A Mind to Know
Part 3 of 3Location: Heartford Residence – Suffolk County, Boston, Massachusetts
Time: Afternoon, Day After Satellite Attacks
Time: Afternoon, Day After Satellite Attacks
Meanwhile. . .
Invisible to the mortal eye, Bach dressed as he preferred. A well worn and beloved emerald green blazer with brown patchwork at the elbows. Various beads, wooden assorted jewelry hung at his neck - handcrafted to the cursory eye. Deep green pants, frayed at the ankles and dustings of dirt present everywhere all over his body. His skin an olive green hue, with green-yellow eyes, pointed ears to give him an elfish appearance. His hair a dark brown with various motley coloured leaves seemingly growing out of it, falling behind him as he walked barefoot. At the top of his forehead, two small horns poking out beneath the unkempt hair. His hands dirty, always dirty from mysterious sources. Living attached to a mortal has changed his appearance in subtle ways, he washes his hand more often than ever before. For the better part of the century, he maintains his appearance as such. Strange and mischievous, when he is seen it’s never far from The Ambassador’s side. He adjusts his height as he needs or desires but often matches Odette’s height. He took long strides up the stairs to the third floor.
When he arrived it was quiet, the conversations and noises of the kitchen more than a floor below. Hearing the house creak, whistle, and move as they do. To his left and right were closets, he peeked inside, seeing winter clothing storage. He rooted through some of the pockets for spare change, he stuck his tongue out at the mothballs emptying them into a boot. Shaking his arm about he conjured a swath of moths blowing them off his hand into the closet. He closed the door, moving on.
Leisurely he wandered down the hallway, hands in his pockets.
He peeked into the spare bedrooms, they were closed off sheets thrown over them to protect the furniture from dust and infrequent use. He went inside, pulling the covers off balling them up and throwing them into another closet. The bedrooms had little decor but one sported a tall mirror, framed in wrought iron. He took a seed from out of his pocket flicking it at the mirror, it bounced off the surface leaving a sizeable crack. He breezed out of the bedroom striding toward the window looking outside, it was a beautiful view. The Heartfords had a sizeable and private property.
He rocked back onto his heels walking away from the window, it was mostly storage and spare space on the third floor. He wondered if they had an attic or just a basement. He turned toward the stairs meaning to head back down, on the second step down he rubbed the heel of his barefoot against the step. It creaked ominously, any more weight applied could have snapped it clean through. He carried on.
To the second floor, he saw more living going on. Master bedroom, sitting room, probably Marie’s old bedroom would be found on this floor. He wandered down to the master bedroom first. Decor and the like were all matching and quite lovely, it was generally tidy some clothing was strewn at the foot of the bed. Vanity dresser combo had various jewelry boxes, half full bottles of perfume and cologne. Some pictures, a small makeup mirror. He ran a hand over the top sheet on the bed, tapping his foot against the foot of the bed knocking it just a little off. He went through the vanity taking things like brushes, watches, earrings into his arms. When he left the room he tracked down to the window - opening it.
He hurled the hairbrush out and with a flick of the wrist, the watch disappeared in a glint of light.
He stepped away, leaving it open - it could rain and drench the sill and floor… unluckily. Such minor misfortune.
Bending down to one of the air vents against the wall he pried it open, nestling earrings away and out of sight. Fitting it back in its place before moving on.
Poking his head into the sitting room, what were the homeowners going to notice before the night was out? He tapped his chin in thought. The small half-bath was tucked into the corner. He reasoned for a house this age, plumbing could very well be the solution to calling attention.
He kneeled down under the sink, tongue sticking out as he loosened the drain pipe, he let the water run. No leaks followed, he leaned against the sink. Using a tiny bit of magic, long vines grew from his nails winding down through the drain and out of sight. He turned on the water, it slowly began to collect in the basin - successfully backing it up. He left the sitting room, feeling there was one more place to sabotage. He made a beeline for Marie’s bedroom.
With a twist of a doorknob, he entered with a little difficulty, some resistance. The air was different, saturated with a witch’s work and craft. A queen-sized bed, similarly matched decor with some teenaged flair thrown in with posters on the wall, an old bookcase that was dusty and maintained only a few books. The desk, however, was her formidable workbench, some stains - wax drippings, burn marks. His hand hovered over it, then laid his palm flat against it. The desk began rattling against the direct contact seemingly coming to life. The noise increased, he tried to stop it but there would be no doubt they could hear from below.
He dug his heels in, “Stop!” putting weight against it. Feeling his teeth chatter.
---
In the dining room downstairs, Odette, Marie, and her parents sat around a large island counter situated next to a fully stocked bar, having worked through two rounds of vegan appetizers, including roasted brussel sprouts with a pesto aioli, a blooming onion, and a charcuterie board full of roasted vegetables, nuts, berries, as well as half the bottle of Odette’s gifted wine. Stephen has been hard at work recounting his many expeditions, throwing in the occasional “fun fact” about cultural artifacts and geographic anomalies. Eliza, on the other hand, has discussed more fully the scope of her work at the university, detailing her areas of expertise in pre-colonial Americas and the Early Modern period, as well as her interests in the industrialization of the world as a whole.
Intermittently, Marie combats her parent’s attempts to tell embarrassing stories of her antisocial younger years but is drowned out by Odette’s own protestations. It’s nice, Marie thinks to herself, despite her cheeks going flush every few minutes, to share this with someone. At no point in her life in Boston did she ever bring home a friend. There were times when she was tempted, but more often than not, she was reading through old texts and experimenting with her craft.
“How rude of us,” Eliza spoke for herself and Stephen, filling both Marie and Odette’s glasses a little too full, “we haven’t asked a single thing about you, Odette. What brought you to Maine and how did you and Marie meet?”
They were far from rude, excellent hosts even hitting the high standards Odette held for herself. They had been warm, entertaining and readily available with sharing food and drink. It really didn’t take much to impress faerie, all you truly had to do was put your best foot forward. Whether that was sharing an old treasured bottle of wine or your last loaf of bread to your pantry. Being a good host wasn’t exclusive to the wealthy, but... Odette still enjoyed being in a beautiful Victorian home versus a hovel.
She gave Marie a glance, eyes alight with mischief. “You have been wonderful hosts, please do not doubt yourselves.”
“We have a rather strange start to our friendship, nearly opposites in our ideals.” They were still to some degree but something was chipping away at Marie’s moralistic compass. Odette knew her influence was to thank for that. “When I first arrived at Lost Haven, it was quite naturally setting up in the French Quarter where things were passingly familiar. I came to explore American dance education here, branch out from what I had always known.”
She pulled out her phone, flicking through it looking for a picture. One she asked to get for rehearsal. She showed the three of them of herself, “Le Lac de Cynges, Swan Lake. I was a soloist for the Paris Opera Ballet, this is me in costume as one of the four little swans.” In the picture they would see her in a white layered tutu, standing en pointe, hair pulled into a feathered cap wrapped around her head with bead and silk. “As you can imagine, long days - the stress maintaining excellence as a Soloist had begun to take a toll on me. I decided to take a much-needed break, study abroad in America.”
It was an incredibly strenuous schedule she had been on for the past several years but she would never admit to letting it break her nor tire. Dance was never a burden. “I found myself in Lost Haven, drawn by its fame close proximity to superheroes and interesting dance community here. An acquaintance of mine brought us together, Racheli.”
She grinned fondly remembering that fiasco. “She was an impulsive and dangerous type of person, she got far too drunk at a party we were both at. I tried wrangling her in but our success was due to Marie and another friend of hers. While we were holding Racheli’s hair we started to talk.”
“Pass the time.” She said, “Turns out we’re both interested in occult things like ghosts, magic, and fairy tales. What a strange way to bond over a puking acquaintance.” She laughed, it was wholly fake. “Here we are.”
Marie stopped herself from reacting in complete shock. She half expected Odette to give them the whole story, but peppering in bits of truth here and there was certainly more Odette’s style. However, her parents were familiar with her interest in folklore and Renaissance magic. Her father was more than happy to share information he’d gathered on artifacts from that era, and the both of them knew plenty of old tales and legends from their studies; it was one of the only ways they’d learned to connect to Marie. But Eliza and Stephen wore a far more troubled expression than she might have expected.
Just then, a rattling came from upstairs, grating against the hardwood floors and shaking the light fixtures in the dining room.
“What in the . . .” Stephen looked up, standing from his position near the bar and moving around the island, poking his head into the foyer to see if the door had been left open.
Marie turned to Odette, silently wondering if Bach or some other spirit might be responsible. This was her first return to the house in almost two years, and with a party of other mystical beings in tow. Perhaps they had inadvertently drawn something in with their presence.
”I-I know what it is.” Marie stammered, trying to come up with a lie. She called out to Holt with her mind, bidding him move her bags up to the second floor unseen. While Stephen’s head was turned to listen to Marie’s explanation, Holt did as requested, appearing at the front door and moving the bags to the room directly atop the dining room.
”I took my bags upstairs before we looked around the library. One of them must have fallen off the bed. I picked up a few souvenirs with Odette earlier, a couple was pretty heavy.”
Eliza and Stephen looked at one another as if mentally conversing. Stephen shrugged, returning to his seat, seemingly satisfied with the answer.
“We’ll send you home with something in case anything was broken.” Eliza offered, sipping her wine.
Odette ignored Marie’s glances, “Perhaps an ancient ghost followed us?” She sipped her wine letting that comment hang. She looked between Marie’s parents, both Eliza and Stephen had fleeting looks of concern, she did not expect it but did they know more than they suspected? She joked, breezily moving on, “When in doubt, sage it out right Marie?”
Mariel let out a cautious laugh in response, worried what might have transpired upstairs but silently directing Holt to inform her of anything troublesome.
Upstairs, Holt scanned her bedroom, noticing her misplaced desk, but nothing else amiss. He could feel something else around, a familiar presence, but gave no indication he knew anything else. Soon after, Holt faded from view, resuming his roam around the house.
Marie closed her eyes and breathed deeply, allowing a calm to wash over her. Now wasn’t the time for something strange and unnatural. She required order, structure, everything in its proper place. Nothing could go wrong.
Nothing can go wrong . . .
Bach crept out from under her bed when Holt disappeared, huffing. He exited the bedroom, noticing a strange pressure that was present inside the bedroom but now followed him outside of it. He looked around then down at himself, seeing if any charms stuck to him. Only a little time passed when he was in the sitting room but wanted to check on the flooding, see if the water had at least reached past the door. When he entered the sitting room it was quiet, no running water could be heard.
Suspicious he crossed the room to the bathroom, the water was turned off. He turned it back on, the water drained normally. He twisted the knob turning it off watching the water drip while he thought. Pushing off the basin he tracked down to the master bedroom, the window was closed. Checking the vanity, everything he stole away was back in its original places. He snatched the hairbrush running upstairs, he threw open the window at the end of the hallway throwing the hairbrush further than before. He watched it fall.
The window began to rattle, he paused at the sound then the window snapped shut over his fingers. He howled ripping his hands away with the snap of a few branches. Momentarily angry he shook his hands, they briefly became bark growing little stubs of fingers back. “. . . Interesting.”
Holding his hands, he looked into one of the guest bedrooms - the sheets had been replaced but mysteriously the wrought iron mirror remained broken. “Curious.”
Back in the kitchen, Odette knew the sounds were Bach but he usually was far quieter. She heard him cry out, she tried not to react but her head turned toward the sound. “I know Marie and I are believers, but what about you? Clearly, experts in your respective fields but. . . Do you believe in what lies beyond our veil?”
Eliza and Stephen shared a knowing look, one that, to Odette and Marie, was far more telling than they might have intended.
“I like to immerse myself in some of what I study,” Stephen spoke first, happy to talk about one of his excavations. “There was this dig I went on in the UK quite a few years ago, for example, up in Wales. I can’t remember exactly where we went, but there were a few monoliths buried beneath a hill up in the Ceredigion region. It took months to get authorization, but the nearest city wanted to open the area up a bit more and if there was another Stonehenge out there, it could mean millions in tourism. I had a friend working in the area who thought to bring me on. Your mother went with me on this one, too.”
Eliza nodded, trying to remember the details.
“That’s right,” she set down her glass, smiling at Stephen before turning back to Marie. “The stones were nondescript, although a bit of writing was just visible above the ground at what we thought was the base. Your father’s better at dating structures than I am, but I could tell it wasn’t as old as similar structures. Much more recent, Early Modern I suspected.”
“Half the reason I brought her,” Stephen interjected, kissing Eliza’s shoulder.
Eliza playfully pushed him away.
“And because I’d been wanting to take a trip to Europe for a while. He surprised me with the dig on the plane over, but I let him get away with it.”
“Anyway,” Stephen continued, “when we dug out the hill, we found a stone circle beneath, masterfully carved, virtually untouched by the elements. On all sides were stone pillars etched in writing and symbols I wasn’t entirely familiar with. I assumed it must have been a ritual site of some description, maybe a remnant of the faerie faith that was common in the isles, certainly not Christian. Behind one of the pillars was a box or chest. It hadn’t survived years of weathering, all kinds of rot had set in and it was falling apart, but underneath the rubble was something wrapped in cloth . . . a book, all kinds of intricate designs on the front like vines.”
“None of us dared try to open it,” Eliza chimed in, “we were worried that it might have been damaged, that tampering with it would undo all the work we’d done to uncover it.”
Stephen nodded in agreement.
“We had a field lab set up under some tents where your mom and I slept overnight while the others in our team went into town. The book didn’t look worn or damaged, in fact the latch on the side of it was perfectly intact. None of us could pry it open. So that night, I fastened a makeshift lockpick to see if I couldn’t jimmy it open.”
“And we both had strange dreams afterward,” Eliza finished for him. “Maybe that was a supernatural experience, maybe it was just the atmosphere. We’ve kept an open mind about it, as with most things.”
Odette schooled her expression to be neutral but what Stephen and Eliza described was unmistakably their tampering with Gwyneth’s Mind. They must have met with her directly, to gain access to one of her items as they and Odette previously had is a one-way ticket into a piece of Gwyneth’s soul. She had to confirm the story, but where was the line to discuss Marie and Odette knew exactly what they were talking about without revealing everything? What else were they aware of?
“That’s an amazing story.” Odette began. “Surely you did not pass that book onto a museum curator. What became of it after you discovered it?” She asked, innocently enough. Marie and Odette knew it was here in the house but was it being kept under lock and key?
Stephen shifted uncomfortably, turning to Marie and finding her expression shifting from tension to intrigue, to a combination of joy and horror.
“Well, the preservation organization we were working with wouldn’t be too keen to let something like that go, but . . .”
“But someone from the dig team made off with it the next morning.” Eliza cut in, sipping her wine and keeping her eyes low. “Never found out who took it,”
”Stop lying,” Marie curtly interrupted, leaning forward.
“Marie?” Eliza questioned with a hurt expression, though Stephen’s jitters betrayed her attempt at acting.
”Have you known this entire time?”
“K-known what?” Stephen sheepishly replied.
Marie let out a deep sigh, her face showing immense disappointment. She waved an arm behind her. Decorative candles lining displays and shelves all lit in unison. Eliz and Stephen jumped back, though their expressions remained largely the same.
“We,” Eliza spoke up before taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, a sigh of relief, or maybe one of remorse? It was hard to say.
“Yes, Marie, we knew. We just thought that, once you moved away, it wouldn’t matter anymore, that you’d go off on your own, find your own way, be something else. But we should have known . . .”
”Should have known what? What aren’t you telling me?”
Stephen and Eliza turned to Odette whom they assumed would want some sort of explanation as well. They were surprised to see that she looked to be enjoying herself.
“I did try to open the book,” Stephen spoke up after a moment of silence. “And we did have strange dreams, but no one stole the book . . . well, I suppose we stole the book. Umm, you tell it, dear.” he conceded to his wife, unable to find the right words to voice their tale.
“I heard noises the night of the dig and couldn’t sleep. I woke up to your father tinkering with the lock on the side of the book. He thought he could get into it without damaging anything and I tried to talk him out of it, but not a moment later, we were . . . somewhere else.”
Eliza shifted in her seat, trying to conjure up details from a memory she’d tried to repress.
“It was the same landscape but much more vivid. The air was much clearer, there were no roads, no lights from the city or neighboring towns. Just the two of us standing in an open field next to the site we’d dug up the previous morning, only now it was fully uncovered. A woman appeared to us, she looked just like you . . . Gwyneth, she called herself. She said we’d found something of hers, that she could help us. I, uhm, I couldn’t . . .”
“Your mother couldn’t get pregnant,” Stephen stepped in, seeing Eliza struggle. “We’d been trying for almost two years until a doctor finally confirmed it. Yo-Gwyneth said that she could help us have a child. We were skeptical about all of this, of course, but there was something about her that made us believe. She said the book was part of her past, that it housed a piece of her soul. But there was another piece that had nowhere to go. Couldn’t move on.
“She told us that she could place that piece inside your mother so that it could be reborn. But we wouldn’t have a normal child, it wouldn’t look like us, wouldn’t ever really be ours. The child would be her, her spirit given form in a living host. Gwyneth said that our child would have power, would slowly remember who she was as she grew older, but so long as she was under our care, she would be our daughter.”
“She didn’t really give us a chance to say yes,” Eliza took back over. “Or maybe we didn’t need it. The next thing we knew, we were back in our tent, open book in hand. It went against everything we believed in, and against all reason, but we took the book, pinning its theft on one of our colleagues. Your father and I joked that it was just an odd dream, a strange coincidence. But soon as we came home to the states I was nauseous. Sure enough, I was pregnant.”
Eliza looked at Mare and smiled, reaching her hand across the table, but Marie kept firmly to herself, waiting for the end of their story.
Stephen cleared his throat.
“We, uh, well after you were born we thought that maybe we’d just gotten lucky. You looked so much like us when you were little. But . . . as you got older, around seven or eight, we could tell. I hid the book in my study, hoped that maybe if I kept it as far away from you as possible, maybe everything would be fine . . .”
“But it found its way to you,” Eliza spoke up, her eyes glazed over. “I remember watching you from the kitchen window walking into the woods and I saw that . . . that creature. But you kept going back and I couldn’t stop you so,” tears began slowly streaming down her face.
Stephen feigned stoicism, but Marie could tell he was just as emotional.
Marie was silent, lost in thought.
Odette swirled the wine in her glass considering it, she was hoping to come to this with a bit more tact but Marie confronting them sped things along for the same results. “I’m seeing a common theme with this conversation and I am-” She rolled her hand at the wrist, gesturing vaguely, “Confused. You met Gwyneth in person, yet you are scared of losing your daughter? She gave you what you wanted, a child. Who is growing into her destiny? Why are you upset?”
She pointed with the rim of her glass at the pair of Heartfords, “Keeping her from what she needed only delayed the inevitable.” Blunt, her voice pulled back from the higher pitch she had been maintaining. “You got what you wished for.”
“Have a little pride.”
They eyed Odette with no shortage of surprise. Both Eliza and Stephen assumed she must have known just as much as Marie, but neither were expecting such a blunt response.
”They’re afraid that when I cease to be Marie, they’ll no longer have a daughter.” Marie spoke up with more edge in her voice than intended. She’d given it plenty of thought. The idea that her parents weren’t truly her parents, just caretakers, was overwhelming. But a memory returned to her, one she’d experienced days before, of herself as a little girl being driven into the arms of the forest. Gwyneth hadn’t known the love of a parent. All relationships were marred by betrayal. With Eliza and Stephen, however, it was different.
”As much as you don’t want to hear this,” Marie leaned in closer, saying with conviction, ”I am Gwyneth Owens. We are one and the same. There’s so much I still don’t know about myself, so much that I have left to learn, but I had a life before I was your daughter, I had ambitions, dreams, everything that, as my parents, you should support. And even though I’m more aware of all of this now, I’m still Marie. The daughter you knew hasn’t changed . . . much.
“Strange as it sounds, when you met with me years ago, I chose you to be my family. I don’t really know how all of this works yet, but I know that it wasn’t a coincidence. I’m as much a Heartford as I am an Owens, whoever that may have been. You let me decide to leave, you never forced it, you never tried to change things after I was born. You were good parents, and you’re still good parents. You’re still my parents even if we aren’t technically related, so don’t worry about losing me. I’m exactly where I need to be.”
Odette reached for the decanter and topped up her glass and then Marie’s, sharing a meaningful look. Marie established her roots, slowly she would finish building her foundations. If her parents truly believed she wasn’t going to change much from now and when she would be completely reunited with her soul, they are about as naive as that statement was. Now wasn’t the time to point it out, they were far too close to gaining access to Mind. “Thank you for being honest.” Odette said instead.
Stephen and Eliza looked to one another thoughtfully, holding back their emotions as best they could. Knowing what the did about Marie, about Gwyneth, it was hard to take in. On the one hand, they’d been gifted a miracle, but on the other, they would lose her to a strange and unnatural fate. Perhaps the time they’d shared with Marie in her younger years was enough.
Marie sipped on her wine, taking in the silence. She’d said her peace, but inherently she knew it would never be a comfort to her parents.
”Speaking of the book,” Marie swiftly moved on. Now that the cat was out of the bag, she saw no sense in delaying her mission. ”where is it? I lost it when I was younger, but I know it’s still in the house.”
Stephen cleared his throat, wiping his puffy eyes with his sleeve.
“Um, it’s in my study upstairs, locked under a glass display.”
“So once you have what you came for, what then?” Eliza mumbled between labored breaths. Her tone was pointed, motherly. “This was just for you to find your book again, right? Now that you’ve found it, will you leave, will you stay for dinner, what happens now, Marie? After you moved out, I expected a little distance, but I silently hoped it was because you were making friends, carving a place for yourself, one that you would share. What now? Will you move on, forget about us?”
“Eliza . . .”
“No, Stephen,” she cut him off, “Dammit we raised you! Whatever deal we made, I gave birth to you, Marie. You’re my daughter, our daughter. Of course, I’m not happy with all the secrecy, all the strangeness, all the uncertainty. I want to know what’s gonna happen to you and, as your mother, I think I’m owed that.”
Odette resisted the impulse to roll her eyes. “For heaven’s sake, Eliza. You and Stephen are at the root of that secrecy.” She said. “If anyone is owing here it is you and Stephen. Who else would have been better to guide Marie in discovering this side of herself than you? Who made the first deal with Gwyneth and spent the next couple decades ignoring it.”
Odette turned to Marie, “There’s also no real way to know what happens. Gwyneth is a unique case.”
Marie wasn’t sure how to feel. As much as she didn’t want to admit it to herself, she agreed with Odette. Had her parents been more forthcoming, had she known about this aspect of her life sooner, she might have been reunited with her memories years in advance.
”She’s right. I don’t know what will happen. My life might pick up where it left off, who knows? I’m grateful, mom, but as for what happens next, you’ve forfeited your right to know.”
Marie quickly stood, walking out of the dining room, into the foyer, and up to Stephen’s study on the second floor. She motioned for Odette to follow, trying to drown out any and all second guesses with thoughts of her Mind.
Eliza and Stephen Heartford were dumbfounded. Twenty-four years they’d cared for Marie, all for it to come crumbling down in one evening, at least, that’s how it felt. Perhaps they were wrong to deny Marie her birthright, and this was their punishment for not upholding their end of the bargain.
Stephen’s study was a sprawling labyrinth of shelves and displays littered with relics of bygone eras. From each dig he’d accompanied, Stephen took a souvenir, something to study in his waning years, that he might never lose his passion for art, culture, and knowledge. Marie spent precious few moments there as a child always shooed away at the door for fear that she would break something, mild-mannered as she was. That didn’t dissuade her from talking the occasional midnight stroll through her father’s private gallery, though she never paid close attention to any particular item in his collection.
Stationed behind his desk beneath a colossal painting of a world map, there lay a most ornate set of displays. At their center, stationed on a slightly raised podium, almost like a lecturn with a glass case, was the book from Marie’s vision, a leather tome with intricate silver vines running the lengths of the cover, forming a knotted latch over the pages to keep them safe from intrusion. The case itself was decorative only, perhaps protecting Stephen’s possessions from dust, but not a one was locked.
Carefully, Marie lifted the glass case and lifted the book, known to her and Odette as Gwyneth’s Mind. Marie was almost giddy as she placed the book on her father’s desk, running her fingers along the spine, searching for any hint of a memory that might be bound to the book’s glossy surface. She’d almost forgotten about the fiasco downstairs, hoping that her parents would simply move on, and allow her to do the same.
“It’s easier when they are separate. Having no avenue to comment or have a concern. If they care at all of course.” Odette said eyes on Mind as well, feeling the excitement coiling up within her as well. It was thrilling to brush a soul as they are. What else would they learn? “You should open it, it won’t be locked to you.”
She reached to touch it… bringing her hand back. “Go on.”
Marie nodded, running her hand over the lock, opening it with the gentlest touch. The front cover fell open, revealing the first page, a dark piece of parchment slightly worn at the edges. There were no words, but a diagram, perhaps a seal of sorts, bearing a classic medieval illustration of a mandrake root, no doubt hand-drawn by Gwyneth. She touched the page, feeling the subtle lines of the ink and coarse grains of the paper. A visible spark trailed behind her fingers, giving Marie a shock that sent her into a trance.
Gwyneth opened her eyes, breathing in the crisp morning air as it mixed with the sweet vapors of her current fumigation, a mixture of bay leaves and cloves. She watched the thick smoke pour from her censer, a brass bowl fitted with a domed lid that sported small openings all around, as well as a large opening at the top, much different to traditional variants. She wafted the smoke in her direction, holding a crisp piece of parchment a small distance from the incense, blessing the page with certain virtues.
A Mixture for Wealth, Success, or the Means by which to Attract the Forces Thereof, read the top of the page. Imbuing the page itself with fortune wasn’t a necessity, Gwyneth knew this. But it gave the words life, meaning beyond their meaning, a measure of success that might not otherwise be attained. It was by no means a complex spell, not by the standards of those uptight magicians in London. Simple, in some cases, was much more powerful that pomp.
Satisfied with her work, Gwyneth pressed the page into her formulary, marveling as became part of the tome itself, by her design, of course. This was the latest of a string of enchantments inspired by the witches in East Anglia, they who danced most closely with the Man in Black, and most openly. A country of witches, men often called it.
“I have the hand,” came a distant voice, echoing through the empty hall of the dimly lit barn, whose upper half had conveniently transformed into a living space sans the owner’s notice, though he often remarked to himself that he heard strange noises late at night, but was rendered utterly oblivious by the mice the witches sent down on occasion.
Into the rafters flew a young man, the farmer’s hand, eighteen and spritely, with silver eyes and copper curls that spoke of his unnatural heritage. Away he’d been sent by Gwyneth to fetch the left hand of a man recently hung, one that the pair would attempt to fashion into a Hand of Glory. The Anglican folk had charms lining their windows, and daggers ‘neath their doors. A witch couldn’t get in without a charm of greater power, something macabre.
”Excellent!” Gwyneth exclaimed, jumping from her seat, taking the hand from her warlock helper, and kissing his pale cheek. ”With this, we’ll find fortune yet, this and the potion I’ve fashioned. A fine dress I’ll take for myself, and a horse we’ll buy. Make the coming and going less of a chore.”
Their excitement was tempered by the march of ten men, carrying with them torches and oil, their faces obscured by masks drawn over their mouths or large hats covering their eyes. Twice in two months, they’d happened upon her, self-righteous men who laid claim to her life, as if it were theirs to claim.
No, but their lives would be hers.
At the end of their march, the men set the barn aflame, watching with satisfaction as the fire crept up the walls, forcing the ceiling to collapse. But Gwyneth feared not. The flames of retribution would surely turn against them. Beyond a veil of black smoke, she issued a silent command, embers falling from her fingertips. Flame spread beyond the confines of the barn, turning and weaving in their direction, slithering like the cunning serpent. It halted their movement, trapping them in place. Their buckets of oil burst, splashing boiling, burning, hot liquid onto their flesh, scarring them forever, those whom she let survive.
Gwyneth and her companion fled, taken by a cursed wind, further into the country, escaping into the forest that promised them shelter. When at last Gwyneth opened her eyes and saw safety, it was not in the thicket of branches and leaves, but among friends, a friend, welcoming and foreboding, scheming just as she.
Marie lurched forward, having fallen back in her chair during the memory, gasping for air as if caught in the flames herself. She coughed out of instinct, covering her mouth and taking a moment to collect herself, feeling a strange warmth creep through her body.
Odette watched Marie sink into a deep trance, sucked into memory and vision. She wouldn’t dare to touch the book now but curiosity burned to know what she was being shown. Bach came in shortly after. There was no question that needed to be asked, she looked at him expectantly. He nodded, his little bits of mischievous sabotage confirmed Odette’s suspicions. Marie carried in her a special aspect outside of her witchy destiny to return to power, hinting at what Gwyneth had spoken briefly of before.
“What did you see, Marie?” Odette pressed.
Marie took a few more deep breaths before speaking, allowing her vision to fully return. She was flooded with a mix of overpowering emotions, but she managed to maintain control of her composure this time.
Holt appeared shortly thereafter, taking his place at Marie’s side. He felt her emotional flux, the inner turmoil experienced during her visions. Offering only his presence as a comfort, he decided to remain silent for the moment, taking in her words.
”I saw myself,” Marie started, sitting upright and flipping through the book, ”I was writing in the book somewhere in East Anglia. We, myself and another witch, were planning to create a Hand of Glory when we were discovered. The barn we’d been staying in was burned down, but I managed to turn the fire back onto our assailants and send us somewhere else.”
”Witch hunters?” Holt questioned, comparing this memory to the one in Nevada, the theme of Gwyneth’s life becoming clear.
”One betrayal after the next,” Marie looked up at Odette, ”That’s what you meant. She . . . I was constantly hunted. It was peaceful, at first, but they wouldn’t let me be. Mortals never stop . . .” she trailed off, searching through the book for the page she’d seen in her vision, as well as any she might have recognized from her childhood.
Odette nodded, eyes scanning her body language then the pages as she flipped through them. “You didn’t have a very good affinity for mortals, the pitchforks and torches being a bit on the nose.”
“When I spoke to Gwyneth… She all but threatened to burn me alive if I ever considered betraying her. It turns out I am not the only one with a penchant for theatrics. . .” She smiled a little, “I believe her of course, theatrical yes but no less serious.” She finished.
“May I see it?” Gesturing to the book.
Marie nodded, stopping on the page she’d scribed in her vision, a potion, and a charm to help one find fortune. She only understood the writing at the top because of having seen it through old eyes. The script was rather ornate, written in a mixture of old Welsh and what Marie assumed was a fey dialect, and the rest of the page held botanical illustrations and alchemical formula likely written in a pattern that made sense to Gwyneth upon writing it, but that would need to be decoded by anyone else.
”This might sound strange, but when I came to, you seemed more familiar to me than before, like we’d met somewhere else, although I suppose we have.”
Marie searched her mind for the words, words she’d been reminded of by Odette’s comment.
” . . . whatever flames have scorched your earth before are but singular sparks, dying embers of a celestial fire that has burned for centuries and centuries to come.” she recited the words with ease. ”I think that’s what I said. You’re right, very theatrical.” she smiled.
That grabbed Odette’s full attention, there was no hiding her shock. “You remember. That is considerable progress. Can you read what you once wrote? I recognize some words but the others are a mystery.” She was hopeful if Marie was able to comprehensively read Mind it could very well trigger more memories.
Bringing them closer.
Marie shook her head.
”I know some of this page, but the rest would take time. Strange that I could read it when I was younger. And I get the feeling that its part of a series of texts, or at least the companion to another volume. This is only a formulary. Botanical information, recipes for potions, powders, elixirs, tonics, herbal talismans and smaller enchantments, a couple of folk chants and rhymes by the looks. I’m guessing that another book will turn up eventually.”
Marie could hear her parents pacing downstairs. The evening had been thoroughly ruined and there was no salvaging it, not here anyway. She needed time to look over her formulary, time to reflect.
”Holt, can you bring my bags from my room?”
Holt nodded, swirling past Odette and Bach to retrieve Marie’s belongings.
”I think it’s time for us to move on. We got what we came for. Can you take us somewhere else?”
“That is a little disappointing you can’t read it yet but I suppose with more time it’ll be easier.” She held up one finger, “Before we leave I must thank the hosts, it’d be completely rude to leave without saying so.”
She stepped out of the room, heading into the kitchen while Marie gathered her things. She spotted Eliza and Stephen. They froze at the sight of her. “Thank you for hosting us this evening. The company was enjoyable and accommodating. While things turned quite sour, at no fault of our own. I will leave you a gift.”
“Anything less would be wrong. Do you accept it?”
Eliza and Stephen shared a cautious look, their expressions marred by excess emotion. They’d had enough surprises, enough gifts to last them a lifetime. And yet, there was a subtle intrigue to Odette, something distinctly otherworldly that piqued their curiosity, despite themselves.
“I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” Stephen stepped forward, arm wrapped around his wife, bringing her with him, though she was reluctant. “Although with how things went tonight, I feel like we should be giving you two something . . .” Stephen tried his hand at humor, realizing shortly thereafter that he had, in fact, gifted them with Gwyneth’s book, or its whereabouts at least.
“I’m sorry you had to be here for this,” Eliza spoke up, “but we won’t turn down your generosity.” She was skeptical, of course. Afterall, Odette had let loose a few choice words, even if they weren’t particularly colorful or rude. Still, perhaps another bottle of wine or something to that effect would calm her nerves.
“Very well.” She brought her purse up to the counter opening it, she stood on the tips of her toes her arm reaching down deep into the magical confines of her purse. She was well up to her shoulder, hand searching for the particular gift. Sounds of glass clinking, unrecognizable growls rumbled from the clutch. Odette pursed her lips, snatching something to bring it back up.
In her hand she cupped a little bulb, sprouting some vibrant purple stalks poking up from chalky white fibers. Soft to the touch. “While Marie will no longer live here she brought with her a very special trait. This gift will emulate that to some degree. Plant them, nurture them, and never thank them - only provide them with what they need and they will do the same for you. Understood?”
They stared at the little bulb in the palm of her hand, nodding reluctantly. “Thank you.” She brought Eliza’s hand up and deposited the bulb into it. Bowing her head to the hosts she turned on her heel to leave. Core values satisfied, Bach nodded from the door - Marie was outside with her luggage.
Fixing her hair, rearranging some bobby pins she asked, “Ready to leave?”
Marie nodded.
”I’ll need some time to study the formulary, and I forgot to mention, the regent to the covens in Nevada tasked me with delivering special tokens to specific witches in the south and on the east coast. There are a few here in Massachusetts. Do you have any business here, or maybe you’d like to accompany me?”
Odette fished her phone out of her purse, scrolling through her calendar. Getting a feel out for covens would help scouting areas for the new portal. “I currently don’t have anything pressing to attend to. Perhaps meeting with the witches will be productive, trigger more clues for the next item. See if any of them are open for business.”
She typed a few things then locked her phone, she brought her hands forward opening a new portal. The unlikely pair of mystics left the beautiful Victorian home behind, fresh memories, and a fresher take on Marie’s personal past brought with them.
