The Root of Magic

by Kathleen Benner Duble

  Willow’s fingers drop from the handle of the locked door. Once again, she is left with questions and no answers. But this time, she won’t be turned away.

  “What’s behind this door?” Willow asks.

  “Chairs,” the colonel says quickly. Too quickly. Willow is pretty sure he’s lying, especially since she thinks she hears the sound of running water coming from inside.

  Her frustration makes her bold. “Can I see?”

  The man says nothing at first, just studies her face. “Maybe someday. It looks like your mother has come in.”

  He tries to pull her away, but Willow won’t budge.

  “How is your granddaughter, Colonel?” she can’t help but ask, and even she can hear the sarcasm in her voice.

  The man’s eyes soften, as does his hold. He drops her arm. “She’s doing nicely. Thank you for asking. Dr. Dawson says the baby will need to stay in the hospital a bit longer since he was born so early, but he will eventually be fine.”

  The colonel is so sincere, so honest now, that Willow’s irritation immediately crumbles. Willow, of all the people in Kismet, knows that having someone you love in the hospital is never fun.

  “I’m glad they’re okay,” she says, meaning it with all her heart.

  The colonel nods. “Yes. We’re very lucky. Not everyone is as ready as we are for any kind of crisis.”

  Willow sees that the colonel is watching Wisp across the room. Wisp is resting at that moment, but there is the ever-present tiredness in his eyes and in the bend of his back.

  Wisp catches Willow looking at him and smiles widely. And she knows that for right now, he is happy and having fun.

  The colonel places a hand on Willow’s back and starts to gently steer her away from the little door and toward her mom and Dr. Dawson. Willow gives in this time.

  “Willow,” her mom says as they draw near, her eyes all merry sparkles, like sun on snow. “Come meet Topher’s mother. Dr. Dawson, my daughter, Willow.”

  Willow turns toward Dr. Dawson. The woman’s black hair is pulled back severely, soft gray sprinkled in patches throughout her braid. Her eyes are the blue of Topher’s blue eye and reflect his warmth within.

  “Hello, Willow,” Dr. Dawson says.

  She holds out a hand, and Willow takes it. Dr. Dawson’s grip is firm, her handshake confident.

  “I am so glad you will be here for a while,” she says. “I hope I can help your mom and your brother.”

  Willow has heard these words before—from many doctors. They mean little to her now. They only remind her of why she is still here.

  “Thanks,” Willow says absently, her eyes turning back toward the door at the far end of the building. What is in that room? She needs to know.

  But the colonel stands in front of it, and she can see no way around him. When he sees her looking, the colonel smiles, but he does not move. And Willow knows one thing for certain then: with the colonel here, she will not get in that room and possibly unravel this town’s secret.

  * * *

  When they get back to Cora’s, Willow tries to finally corner her mom, to find out about why she left last night and went to that building with Cora—about what Angeline has said. But her mom avoids her, saying she must call work again and talk to them about possibly taking a leave of absence. She scoots out of the room before Willow can ask her anything.

  Willow looks for Wisp, to make him confess that their mom wasn’t in the bedroom last night. But he is already asleep on Cora’s couch, his coat and boots still on, as if he hopes to run around like that again and wants to be prepared.

  Willow longs to just curl up beside Wisp, to drift, like him, into a deep late-afternoon nap. And so Willow gives in and slides herself behind him, feels him turn into her, his warmth like a medicine to her own wounded self. She pulls him closer. He settles with his head on her shoulder, one arm thrown across her middle. Willow softens toward sleep; her eyelashes fall onto her cheeks with weariness.

  Willow feels like the mythical Greek Atlas, who was forced by the gods to hold up the world, day after day, keeping that weight up though he longed to set it down—just for a minute, just one tiny minute. Now Willow sets her burden down. But of course, the gods have no mercy, and neither does Wisp’s illness.

  * * *

  Willow is wakened by wet. In the early-evening darkness, she can just make out blood on her hand. She rises carefully to her elbow to see that her brother’s nose is bleeding, though he’s still sleeping.

  She sucks in her breath. Wisp’s nosebleeds are often hard to stop. Her heart pounding, Willow slips her brother’s head from her chest and goes to find her mother.

  As Willow starts for the stairs, she hears voices coming from the kitchen, and so she heads there. But she is stopped before she opens the door by the words from inside.

  “You will have to introduce the idea to her slowly.”

  It is Cora’s voice, deep and raspy.

  “I’m not sure she’ll take to it,” Mom is responding. “It’s a hard concept to grasp, and one she may not like.”

  Cora laughs. “They all understand eventually. They all finally realize that it is best not to be caught off guard.”

  Willow is caught off guard. She stands, undecided, fear fighting her curiosity. Wisp could be in trouble, and she needs to tell her mom. But how can she not stay silent and listen to more of what is being said between Cora and her mom if answers are within her grasp at last?

  “Wisp…,” Willow hears her mom mutter.

  A coffee cup is set down with a rattle.

  “Yes,” Cora says. “It’s time. And she’ll be standing outside, so be careful not to hit her with the door.”

  “Oh, yes. I remember that too,” her mother says.

  Willow freezes, shock frozen solid from Cora’s and her mom’s words, like the icicles that hang off Kismet’s houses.

  Slowly, the kitchen door swings open, and her mom smiles at her.

  “Hello, Willow. Wisp’s bleeding, isn’t he?”

  Willow’s mom walks calmly toward the living room. Willow watches her, motionless, as if fixed to the floor.

  “Aren’t you going to go with her?” Cora has come from the kitchen too.

  She places a hand on Willow’s shoulder and gives her a little push, finally freeing Willow from where she is stuck.

  Wisp. Willow runs to the living room.

  Her mom is bent over her brother, shaking him gently awake. There is none of the urgency in her mom that usually accompanies these incidents. And Willow stands beside them, baffled and bewildered. Why is her mom so slow? Wisp is bleeding!

  The front door opens and in come Layla and James. They have a blanket with them, and they wrap Wisp up as Willow’s mom presses his nose with a towel to try to stop the bleeding.

  How did they know to be here? How did Cora know she was standing outside that door?

  “Come along, Willow,” Mom says.

  Willow follows her mom and Wisp, Layla, and James down the front walk and into the dark of a winter evening. The plow truck is waiting. And they are off quickly to the hospital. Her mom is all smiles and chats, and everyone seems just fine.

  Only Willow feels panicked, and not just by Wisp.

  She is dead-leaf blown away. She is corn-maze confused. What is happening? Has the world turned upside down while she slept? Why is no one on high Wisp alert?

  When they arrive at the hospital, Dr. Dawson is already outside, a wheelchair all set, her blue eyes totally focused on Wisp as he is lifted from the truck.

  How did Topher’s mom know they were coming?

  They whisk Wisp away, and Willow is left standing at the door to the emergency room.

  “He’ll be fine, Willow,” her mom calls to her as she walks behind Dr. Dawson and the doors swing shut. “No need to worry.”

 
; Through the glass in the door, Willow watches them head down the hallway, and she feels a volcano-like boiling and burning, building just below her surface. She is standing here alone, blinking in confusion, understanding nothing.

  How does her mom know Wisp will be okay? Her mother never assumes that.

  Willow cannot solve this riddle of everyone acting so casually, this puzzle of how her mom and everyone else was ready for Wisp’s nosebleed, as if they all knew.

  She is tired of being the only one in this town left out of its secrets. She may not be able to go in and help Wisp, but she can do something. She can take a step toward figuring out this town’s mystery, and she is determined to do it. She turns on her heel and heads for the brick building.

  * * *

  The front door swings open easily enough. The hall lies before her, signs for Topher’s birthday decorating the walls, tables set with folded napkins, fiddles and fifes for dancing at the ready. Balloons float and bob as she closes the door behind her.

  Willow walks bravely across the floor. She reaches boldly for the handle on the tiny door in the back wall. And she pulls.

  Nothing. It will not open. The door is firmly closed, tightly locked.

  Willow stomps her foot in anger. She lets out a cry of frustration. Lava swishes in her guts, wanting to spew out. She swallows it down.

  But she refuses to stay in darkness. This door will not deter her—not now.

  She sits on a folding chair and stares at the lock. She thinks and thinks on what she can do, how she can gain entrance to an explanation.

  And then she remembers—Cora here, late at night, and a wall of keys that Cora guards. Could one of them unlock an answer?

  * * *

  She runs back to Cora’s and tiptoes through the living room and the dining room to the large wooden reception desk. Upstairs, she hears Cora plodding down the hallways, sighing and muttering as she thumps along. Willow knows she must hurry if she is to escape unnoticed.

  The keys are all lined up on a board of hooks, each one with a hand-painted room number, each key, with the exception of the one to Willow’s room, exactly where it is meant to be. But in one corner hangs a loner, like an outcast the others do not want to associate with. It has no room number assigned, only a bright green ribbon to identify it.

  It beckons Willow to it, the light from outside making it wink with welcome. Willow lifts it from its hook. Its bright green ribbon lies in her palm as if it belongs there. She hurries quickly and quietly away, the key to her questions grasped hopefully in her hands.

  * * *

  Back at the brick building, Willow’s blood thumps loudly in her ears when she enters, but no one steps out to block her as she approaches the door. No hands reach out to stop her as she slides in the key. The lock turns easily, and the door swings open. And Willow’s mouth drops in surprise.

  It’s a small room, but it seems larger when she looks up and sees that the ceiling is made of glass. The newly risen moon pours its light inside, illuminating corners that smell of earth and water. Hoes and handheld weeding tools, hoses, and watering cans litter the ground. In the center of the floor, the hot, supposedly magical waters of the stream trickle and bubble on their way toward Kismet’s lake with its open water hole.

  But at the far end of the room stands the most amazing sight. And in an instant, Willow knows that this must be the secret to Kismet.

  Rising toward that glass ceiling and its promise of sky and light is a bush almost ten feet in height. Its branches are thick and full. The bush pulsates with life. It is the only greenery in the room, the only reason for all these gardening gadgets, this source of water.

  But the green leafy plant is not what draws Willow inside. It is not what makes her close the door softly behind her with a tiny click.

  It’s the berries.

  There must be hundreds of them, clustered all over its branches, dripping in grapelike bundles from the bush’s every limb. In front of the bush on a small table is a bowl overflowing with those same berries—only riper, darker in color.

  And they shine. Oh, how they shine.

  In the bright rays of moonlight gleaming down from the ceiling, these berries twinkle an invitation, shimmering and glimmering, drawing Willow toward them.

  Step closer, they seem to say. Come. Come. Taste me.

  They are almost gold, with thin stripes of Caribbean blues and greens. Lovely to look at, they beckon her nearer, nearer.

  Come. Come. Taste me.

  Willow walks slowly toward the bowl of berries, their scent so enticing, like honey and lavender rolled into one. She reaches out a hand, her pulse quickening, her mouth watering.

  Come. Come. Taste me.

  “I wouldn’t touch those if I were you,” she hears behind her.

  The spell is broken, and Willow turns.

  Angeline stands by the door, a key in her hand.

  Angeline moves into the room. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

  What can Willow say? There is no defense for what she has done—stolen a key, opened the door to a room where she is clearly not meant to be. But despite having behaved badly, she finds herself unwilling to give in.

  “What is this place? Is this part of the big secret?” Willow demands of Angeline. “What kind of bush is that? And why is it locked in this room?”

  Angeline looks Willow in the eyes. “You need to ask your mom those questions.”

  Willow pulls back. Angeline mentioned at the lake that her mother would decide whether she would know the secret. And she remembers that tonight, Cora told her mom that she must introduce the idea to “her” slowly. Was Cora talking about Willow? Had Angeline meant the secret was this room? Had Cora been talking about this place?

  “My brother’s in the hospital,” Willow says. “My mom’s been a little busy.”

  Angeline shrugs. She comes farther into the room, walks to the bowl of berries, and picks one up.

  Willow watches. “What kind of berries are those? Do they taste good?”

  Angeline slips the berry into her pocket. “You need to ask your mom. She’ll explain it all to you. But right now, you need to leave.”

  Angeline tries to grab Willow’s arm, but Willow wiggles away. She runs to the bowl, reaches as if to pluck a berry from the pile.

  “STOP!” Angeline yells. “You have to be thirteen to eat those.”

  “Why?” Willow asks.

  Angeline rolls her eyes. “I told you. Ask your mom.”

  “No,” Willow says, her voice harsh and hard.

  This time, she will get her answers.

  Willow picks up a berry, holds it to her mouth. Her hand shakes with this bold bluff. What if the berry is poisonous? What if it kills her?

  “STOP!” Angeline says again. “I told you. You’re breaking the rules.”

  “Whose rules?” Willow says.

  “The town’s,” Angeline answers.

  “Why would a town make rules about a bush?” Willow asks. “Are the berries dangerous? Then why did you take one? You seem okay.” She holds the berry to her mouth again.

  “Just stop with all the questions and give me that berry. It’s not meant for you,” Angeline says, holding out her hand.

  Willow does as she asks. She drops the berry into Angeline’s outstretched palm, but even as she does this, Willow’s other fingers slip a second berry from the bowl into her coat pocket. Angeline places the first berry carefully back in the dish. Then she sighs. “Do you know what kind of trouble you would have been in if you’d eaten that?”

  “No,” Willow snaps, reaching threateningly toward the bowl again. “I don’t. That’s why I’m asking.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll tell you the basics, but you have to get the details from your mom. Agreed?” Angeline says.

  Willow nods, pulls her hand back. The deal
seems fair enough, and she has the other berry safely in her pocket.

  Angeline looks down at the fruit in the bowl. “They tell you your future.”

  Willow blinks. “What?”

  “We all know the future—or I should say, our next day,” Angeline says. “I know you’ve been trying to figure out what makes our town so unusual, and that’s it. We all know exactly what will happen the next day, and then the day after that and the day after that. Forever.”

  “But that’s…well, it’s…,” Willow stammers.

  “Impossible?” Angeline answers for her. “Magic? Yeah, it is.”

  It seems unbelievable, what Angeline has just told her. And yet some things, strangely, begin to make sense. They click, like locks turning, pins falling into place, tightening up questions and answers into secure, sealed fixtures: the colonel knowing his granddaughter would have a baby that night, though she wasn’t due for weeks; Cora making up the extra bed the first night they arrived; Layla and James finding them the night they crashed when the world was blacked out by snow; Angeline knowing she could skate; Cora telling Willow to answer the door before Topher had even knocked—all were riddles that were answered before they even became questions.

  “How does it work?” Willow asks.

  Angeline swirls the toe of her shoe in the dirt of the room. “Every night before we go to bed, we eat a berry. Then we fall asleep and dream about what will happen to us when we wake up the next day. And it happens just the way we dream it. You can start using the magic when you turn thirteen. Cora is the keeper of the garden. She feeds it with the water from the spring. It’s the magic in the waters that lets the plant thrive, so Cora makes sure that the bush stays well fed. She picks the ripe berries early in the morning and leaves them for us in the bowl.”

  Willow looks at the bush—the root of Kismet’s magic. The berries almost seem to wink at her.