Three Witches

by Paula Jolin

  Gillian looked up, looked out into the forest. “Now the wood,” she said. She moved to a small pile of logs over by a bump in the forest floor; Aliya helped her carry them back, place them inside the pit they’d made. Miya came right behind them, her arms full of brush. It too went into the dark hole below.

  Gillian upended a Tiki torch and brought it close, closer, closest—the wood caught fire, crackled, a tiny spark in an enormous forest.

  Aliya held still in the almost dark. If she closed her eyes, she’d have believed she was alone. Then she smelled it, so strong she almost tasted it, Baldessarini for Men. She caught her breath, realized: Baldessarini was cedar-tinged; must be the wind rolling through the cedar trees, carrying their scent.

  But Trevor had worn Baldessarini.

  Aliwhooo, said his voice. She looked at Gillian, glanced at Miya. One of them must have noticed, must have heard Trevor call her name. But their heads were bent, intent, as they watched the wood in the pit alight.

  Aliwhooo.

  Something touched her neck, stroked it, caressed it. Not the wind. She reached up to grab his hand and—

  CRACK.

  She was interrupted by the sky. Harsh, angry lightning shot through the dark clouds above, lighting up their small circle.

  She, Gillian, and Miya were alone.

  SEVENTEEN

  MIYA STARTED to move. From famous dancing cultures, both of them—Gillian, with her Carnival and her soca music and her wining; Aliya, with her Arabic orchestras and her scarf around the waist and her belly dance—but it was Miya, the girl who’d been kicked out of ballet class, who led the dance. Gillian had her obeah, Aliya had her jinn, but it was Miya, the atheist, the Unbeliever, who broke the lightning spell and decided what to do next.

  Her first movements were sharp, jerky, as she raised her arms over her head. Was this how spirits moved? Of course not. Think: the sweep of the wind, the dance of the air. But she wasn’t trying to be a spirit, was she? She was trying to summon one. Or was it . . . Fine, she didn’t know what she was trying to do. Feel the music, Mom would have said. Miya threw back her head and felt, but the music was still. Wind lifted her hair, cold air brushed her nose, and nothing more.

  She let her arms drop in a kind of half circle, out in front of her, still stylized but a little more graceful than before. What would she do if she believed all of this? Bow. Bend over, pay homage. Touch her knees, elbows, forehead to the dirt.

  She did. Waited for some sign that she’d done it right; when none came, she got up, moved a little faster. Spun around, and caught a surprising sight: two girls following her, copying her movements. Miya almost stopped. She was used to going where no girl dared to follow. Lightning flashed and framed the two girls beneath swaying trees: dark eyes burned into their faces, tangled hair standing on end. Was that a shadow behind them, towering over Gillian, holding out a protective arm to Aliya? Lightning faded, and the night swallowed them up—the two girls and whatever tree Miya had mistaken for a man.

  Miya bowed her head and shuffled through the dirt. Veering right, she headed up an embankment, hands reaching up to the nearest trees, clutching at a handful of pine needles, pulling herself up.

  The girls behind her passed in and out of view as she spun around. Gillian, moving with rhythm, Aliya, climbing with grace. Gillian muttered something—was it, “Is this how they do it in Japan?”

  How would Miya know? She’d been to Japan just three times, and only the last trip, Ojii-san’s funeral, had made an impression on her. Flying into Tokyo exactly seven days after his death, being escorted everywhere by relatives; catching her own cheekbones in someone else’s face, her habit of chewing pencils in her young cousin’s mouth. Then the funeral itself. The smell of senkou, sharp like sandalwood, the creak of respect as old bones bowed before his photo, the rustle of envelopes as incense money passed to Obaa-san; that was the first time she realized it wasn’t just her mom who was Japanese, it was she, Miya, too. Even if she was just “that Asian girl” to everyone else—“that smart Asian girl” to her teachers, “that slutty Asian girl” when she started wearing the tight shirts with the scoop necks.

  The embankment was a bad idea. Miya struggled on until her feet plunged into a shallow indent, a kind of puddle. Cold, wet mud spilled inside the tops of her boots. One small gasp, and then she took hold of herself. Stopped, spread her arms wide, looked over her shoulders. Behind her, the confined fire had grown much stronger. It flickered red and orange in its circle of stones, lit up the forest between here and there. She’d half lost both her followers: Aliya had her arms around a nearby cedar tree, face pressed against its trunk, branches of needles spilling over her neck and shoulders; Gillian was spinning down the embankment, black hair matted against her head, clothes spotted with mud. Something dark stained her hands.

  Miya lowered her arms, returned to the dance. Back down the embankment by herself, squishing with grace, stumbling with rhythm. The trees, smacked and whipped by the howling wind, began to sound like music, moving branches thumping out the bass, crackling leaves playing the melody. Miya gave herself up to it, swayed, stumbled, spun, thought no more. Eyes half-closed, she twisted through the leaves, turned back, saw, too late, the thick trunk of a pine tree. Slam. Her head thudded, her knees buckled, and she sank into the mud.

  And then Miya wasn’t in the mud at all. She was rising through the air, buoyed by a faraway voice saying, I never meant to screw up your life, I just wanted the mom I loved back, the one who wasn’t entranced by a fat old man. Her voice. Growing louder, growing angry. Fine, Trevor, whatever, go drown yourself in the lake if you’re going to feel so sorry for yourself. Do you think I’d care? Do you think anyone would?

  She held there, high above the trees, peering down as though through a high-powered lens. In the clearing below, one girl danced and spun around the fire, arms waving, mouth moving, hair and hands flying. Closer by, a second girl splashed through the leaves to save a third and final girl. A close-up on the last one. Her black hair had tangled into ropes, her head bent at an awkward angle, a spot on her forehead was already turning red. That girl, there was something about her . . . She’d been melting into forest floor, but now, without warning, she stood out: bathed in light, encircled by color, a pale yellow that grew dark, strengthened into a gleaming gold. She moved her head, moaned, and the light shimmered with her.

  Then Miya felt the hard ground beneath her, and her face started to throb. The moment was over. There was Aliya, cold hand clutching hers. “What happened, Miya? Are you all right?”

  EIGHTEEN

  THERE WAS NO MUSIC, but Gillian heard it anyway. George Aiwa pounded away inside her head—Wave your flag, wave your flag—Alison Hines ordered her to Roll it on, gyul, roll it, David Rudder insisted she was the girl from Bahia, The Mighty Sparrow crooned about saltfish. The fire drew her like a band at Carnival, and there she was beside it, in front of it, around it. Jumping up. Mums, all those years ago, in Auntie Ruby’s kitchen: What kind of Trini yuh are, yuh don’t know how to wine? Wit the hips, gyul, wit the hips—wine yuh waist.

  She got it, and she never forgot it. She was wining now. Her hips swung in perfect rhythm, here she was circling the fire, once, twice, there she went round again. Like Soca Baptists, she was shouting, sweat streaming down her face, arms in the air. Superblue was right: religion and music were the same damn thing. Shaker Baptists jumped up for their love of the Lord in church, soca-loving Trinis jumped up for song on the Carnival trail. Gillian jumped up for—she was jumping up for Trevor, wasn’t she? Jumping up for a chance to find her money, a chance to remake her life. If there was healing in dancing, salvation in singing, obeah in any of this, she was here to find it.

  Round and round the fire she went, cheeks burning, face wet. She stumbled, almost fell headlong. Yuh moving too fast, gyul. That was Mums too, at Gillian’s first Kiddie Carnival. She’d been wearing green satin pants and a long tunic with wide sleeves—dancing dragons, they’d been. Hurry, she’d called t
o Mums over her shoulder. Ah don’t want them to start without meh. And there was Mums, trailing behind, canoodling with that Stephen. Or was it Dwight? Or, no—that memory couldn’t be right. She would have been seven, her first Kiddie Carnival, and Mums and Dad were still together then.

  She spun around. No dancing dragons tonight, but who needed costumes when you had the real thing? Something smashed, crashed, crumpled: the jumbies stumbling through the forest? Fire behind her, she could see nothing in front but dark shadows, enormous, shaking. Good Lord, what was she doing? She stopped, ears, nose, eyelids tingling, skin shimmering, fear shaking down till it came out her fingertips. Crash, boom, agggghhhh. Oh my G—

  Aliya’s voice: “Miya, are you all right?” Right. Of course. Miya and Aliya, how could she have forgotten them?

  Gillian turned back to the fire. The obeah man had taken Aliya’s e-mail with slow, careful hands; his face twisted in concentration as he held it over the fire. She moved again, slower now, more deliberate, eyes screwed closed, mouth twisted, breathing in the urine-fecal-bloody-but-alive scent of the undead. The song in her head: Calypso Rose’s “Fire Fire in You Wire.” Fire. It crackled and popped to the soca rhythms as Gillian’s body circled, as she willed herself to think of Trevor.

  Somehow, he eluded her. Yuh burn yuhself, gyul, yuh not careful. That was the time Mums had lived up to her promise and they’d roasted goat over an open flame in Dwight’s backyard. They’d spent half the afternoon chopping herbs and grinding spices to season the meat. Of course—Gillian’s nose wrinkled—they hadn’t watched it carefully enough, and the meat had charred. Mums ate it, sitting in the grass, leaning back on Dwight’s knee. Anything tastes good, yuh got enough rum to go wit it. But Gillian hadn’t had rum. She’d had the burned rice from the bottom of the pot.

  She twisted, spun, picked up speed. Alison Hines again: Nothing, yuh getting nothinnnnnng. And this wasn’t the time to think about rum. There was never a time to think about that last night, Mums coming through the door, hair askew, clothes rumpled, looking like she’d swallowed the rum bottle whole. Saying: We got a thing to drink in this house?

  Yuh, yuh cut off, Gillian had told her. Nicely, really nicely. But Mums couldn’t take nicely, could she?

  Swish. Wind whistled through the leaves, lifting them, swirling them, letting them groan. Gillian wined through the darkness and into the warmth of the fire. Oh yo yo, ah ya yi. Crackle, hiss. Hiss. That’s exactly how Mums responded. Yuh cutting meh off, gyul? Yuh think Ah won’t put yuh black ass out? Fifteen years old and yuh trying to tell meh how to run meh life? Across the kitchen floor, over by the oven, fencing with insults and cusses and blows. Gillian, nasty eyes, smoldering face, had slashed with, Look at yuh, yuh cyar even go one day without the rum? Mums, ugly with her fat lip out, parried back: Yuh just like yuh dem father, so above it all.

  Gillian waved her arms higher, harder, in the smoky night. It was Dad to blame, it was. Had to be. Leaving Mums, like he the big man, too good for she. Leaving Gillian to dote on Mums, to adore her—to love her, yes, she’d loved her. Hidden the bottles from the boyfriends, called in sick to the zoo for her, and okay, maybe she’d overstepped her bounds with her Yuh cut off, but Yuh think Ah won’t put yuh black ass out? That went too far.

  Gillian danced even faster, wilder, her feet kicked up mud that landed in her hair, splattered down her back. Her chest tightened, shuddered. Almost like it was still that day in Trinidad, Mums backing her up against the stove, waving a finger in her face. She’d bitten back the anger then, but no need to bite it back now. Kitchener pounded in her head: “Ten To One It’s Murder.” Now was the time, here was the place, for anger. She sank into it, as she had sunk back against the stove, felt the heat coming off the top burner. Hell, she could feel it now. It burned her feet, rose up, began to transform her. It was—

  What the devil are you doing? No, wait, Mums didn’t say that. That was Aliya’s voice, coming from far away. Gillian opened her eyes—blinked once, twice. Something was way wrong. Aliya again: “Gillian, are you out of your mind? Get out of there!”

  Spin. The fire had leaped out of the pit, ignored the rocks surrounding it, started snaking toward her, burning the ground just beyond her Nikes. What the hell—? She stared around wildly: had to be something to put out the fire. The pee. Miya had only drizzled it into the pit, there was plenty left.

  She lunged, scrabbled for the bucket’s handle, caught it— Agh! Hot like hell. The metal seared her fingers and she winced in pain, dumped the pee on the fire, almost gave up the whole cursed effort, but at the last minute clutched the plastic rim with her fried fingers. She held her breath.

  The fire dampened slightly, yes, but it soon raged back. She skirted it while she still could, stuck her feet off the path into moss and thorns, bucket bouncing against her legs. Head for the lake, it was the forest’s only hope.

  Miya and Aliya were both shouting now—warnings, maybe, or voices raised in supplication to God or devil—but she ignored them as she filled the bucket with water and then started running back. If the wind blew the wrong way, yes, she could be trapped. But if she turned, took her last step home, who knew the damage the fire could cause?

  It sputtered and spit. A flickering spark landed on her cheek—she flinched, but, funny, it didn’t hurt. Was this just the beginning? Had they opened themselves up to some other realm, one where fire wasn’t the foe of life but its fuel? More flame, more ash on her neck, her hair, her fingers. It fell gently, with the soft touch of rain.

  Maybe because it was rain.

  Gillian tilted her head back and, sure enough, drops of water sprinkled her face. In the next moment, the rain grew serious, and it began to pour. Gillian stared into the fire, twisting and spinning and fighting, just as she herself had done a few minutes before. She took just a minute to sing it to sleep—like soca Baptists, like soca Baptists, ah ah ah ah ah.

  Then she turned in the mud, her Nikes so ruined they almost slipped off her feet, and trudged back the way she’d come. What had happened down there? She couldn’t get her head around it. They’d cordoned off the pit with rocks, she’d lugged some of them herself. And what the hell were they thinking in the first place, building a fire in the woods?

  She’d expected to see Aliya and Miya watching the spectacle from the safety of their cars, or at least half way up the hill, but here they were, two dark shapes beside her. “So sorry,” said Aliya, when Gillian could finally make out the words. “Blasted tree fell in our path.” Looked more like Aliya’d been the fallen one. Black squishy stuff dotted her elbows and her arms, and covered every inch of her from the waist down. Aliya went on. “I can’t believe you tried to put out the fire like that, all by yourself. Are you all right?”

  Miya said nothing, just rubbed her lips together and looked over her shoulder. Gillian copied her: the pit was dark, the fire dead. Not every rainfall could trounce a forest fire, but this one had.

  “Let’s get out of here,” said Aliya.

  They challenged the steep hill again, struggled through the sheets of rain, finally found themselves back at the lookout point, where they climbed into their cars without saying goodbye.

  Gillian should have been thinking: stupid rain. Beating against her back, freezing the skin on her neck. Stupid weather, always changing. Stupid New England, couldn’t it get with the global warming thing and heat up? But instead she was shoving the key in the ignition, turning on the car, putting her hands on the steering wheel.

  Her hands. She held them up and peered at them in the dark. Dirty hands, sticky hands, but whole, uninjured, unscarred hands. She’d grabbed that metal, hadn’t she? Winced and screamed as it bit into her skin?

  She flicked on the overhead light. Sure enough, her hands were absolutely fine.

  PART II

  NINETEEN

  7B. UNDERNEATH IT, smudged black letters on a white label: Yoko Kano.

  Miya raised her hand to knock, held it. In that moment of hesitation, the door opened. “We
lcome.” Miya looked up. The woman was tall and willowy, with long, disheveled black hair spilling over her white kimono. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  Why was she here, in this paint-peeling hallway, instead of at home with a remote and a mug of hot something? The séance, wind whistling around her ears, the crackle of fire behind her. That out-of-body moment, when she saw herself surrounded by light and glowing. Miya shivered. She was involved, like it or not.

  “Uh, hi,” she said. “Interesting, that, since I just now decided to come here.”

  “I’ve been waiting for you for a long time,” said Yoko. She held the door open politely while Miya slipped out of her shoes. Then Yoko stepped back and Miya entered the sanctuary. A tiny room, this front one, but serene. Yellowed Japanese tatami mats covered the wooden floor, dry and a little worn. A scroll hung on the wall, painted with a single kanji character—that was one she knew, wasn’t it? Stamped on the boxes of detergent Mom brought home from the Asian grocery: yuki, “snow.” The faint smell of incense scented the room. In the corner, a pot of tea sat steaming on the floor, three ceramic bowls already filled.

  Miya swallowed.

  Yoko led her across the room. Did she walk with a kind of inhuman grace? Stop being ridiculous. Science, that was Miya’s god. What about Sociology last year? All that about collective consciousness: how when people gather together for religious ceremonies, their collected energy can make it seem like an outside force is present. That’s what happened Friday night. Aliya’s frenzied grief, Gillian’s desperate homesickness, and her own powerful guilt all linked arms and lit up their wild imaginations. Made perfect sense. Except all the logical explanations in the Soc curriculum couldn’t shake those vivid moments in the forest out of her head.

  Miya sat down on the mat.

  Yoko lifted one of the bowls and passed it across to Miya, then took the second bowl in her own two hands. Miya found herself raising eyebrows at the lone bowl on the tray. “Yes, yes,” said Yoko. “My third guest will be here. Sooner or later. Fortunately, he doesn’t mind his tea cold.”