by Ami McKay
In years past, the Witch had never dared stay to watch the Dearlies frolic for she’d feared their merriment might prove too riotous for her senses, leaving her deaf, dumb and blind. This year, as the sun fell below the horizon, she drank a potion made of toadstools and harebells so she might disguise herself as a rabbit in the tall grass near their fairy ring.
The rite was lit by foxfire and lightning bugs, their dances accompanied by beautiful odes depicting their illustrious past. Once the Demon heard what he was after, he snuck into the shadows. As he went, he heard the chance snap of a twig, alerting him to the Witch’s presence.
Overpowered by hunger (as such monsters often are), the Demon seized the rabbit by her legs and held her in the air, ready to devour her whole. Struggling to break free, the Witch cried out in fear, her spell broken by her distress. The fairies, alerted to the intruders, threw a net of spider’s silk over the pair and dragged them through the glen. Discovering the offerings the Witch had left for them, they blew salt in the Demon’s eyes and set the Witch free. Taking the Witch’s thread in hand, they guided it through the needle, then pierced the skin of the Demon’s lips to sew his mouth shut. As they worked, they tied each of the buttons to the thread to secure their knots. No sooner had they finished than the thread turned to molten lead, searing the Demon’s flesh and removing their true name from his tongue. Rather than doing away with the beast, they sentenced him to live, mute and anguished, with only brimstone smoke and the scent of rotting flesh to nourish him.
To thank the Witch for her kind deed, the Dearlies invited her into their circle to share an elixir made of Bog Myrtle and Mugwort, and to teach her the Language of Dreams. In three years’ time (which seemed like three minutes to her), she returned to her village to live out her days as an interpreter of Dreams.
In these times, because so many have forgotten the Dearlies and their gifts (men are far more inclined to attribute their dreams to indigestion than magic), these marvellous creatures cling less frequently to our bedposts, and are more likely to be found in places they inhabited in the distant past. (If you’ve ever wondered why some locations—sunny meadows, mossy grottos, lonely castle towers—generate the most spectacular visions, you now know the reason.) But be not dismayed, the Dearlies will come whenever and wherever they’re needed, so long as they are kindly coaxed and treated with respect. Demons of all stripes may try to thwart them, but the Dearlies stand invincible because of the kindness of the First Witch.
And that, my darling girl, is why witches’ dreams are the best of all, and should never be dismissed.
Close your eyes and get some rest. We gain new worlds when we sleep.
—From the grimoire of Eleanor St. Clair
(as told to her by her mother).
Divinations and Dreams.
BEATRICE DID NOT mention her mother’s visitation. The spirit’s presence had been brief—there for but a moment, then gone. What could be done about it now? Nothing. Thus far, her encounters with spirits had been varied and strange, and she wasn’t sure whether that was due to the nature of ghosts or the newness of her gift.
But during the carriage ride back to the teashop, Adelaide sensed something was amiss. “You’re keeping something to yourself,” she said. “And you might as well tell me because I’ll keep my eye on you until I discover it myself.”
Beatrice stared at a cascade of raindrops flowing down the edge of the carriage window. “I’m not sure I should,” she said. “It won’t do anyone any good.”
Adelaide watched as the girl nervously tugged at one of the buttons on her glove. It was a sure sign something was troubling her from the past. If she was haunted in her mind and heart, it followed that she might also be haunted in the truest sense. “Did another ghost visit you while we were at Dr. Brody’s?” she asked, wondering if her mother’s spirit had attempted to make more dark mischief.
Eyes wet, Beatrice nodded, clutching at the folds of her dress as a child holds fast to her mother’s skirts.
“It was someone you knew? Someone you loved?”
Caught in Adelaide’s gaze, Beatrice surrendered. No matter what she chose to say she’d already been found out. Eleanor had mentioned that Adelaide’s ability to peer into others’ souls was beyond compare, but Beatrice hadn’t felt the total weight of it until now. “It was my mother,” she confessed.
“You’re sure?” Adelaide asked. “It couldn’t have been anyone else?”
“Quite sure,” Beatrice replied. “I didn’t see the whole of her, but I saw and felt her hands on mine, much the same as I did with Dr. Brody’s father. She guided my hands to move the board but I’m afraid I don’t know what she meant to say.”
Adelaide bit her lip. The fault lay with her. “I didn’t see the needle move around the dial.”
“You were caught up with Dr. Brody’s excitement over his father’s message. I completely understand.”
Adelaide shook her head. “I should have stayed where I was while you were at the board and kept my eye on the needle.”
“You couldn’t have known,” Beatrice said.
Adelaide stared out the carriage window. I would’ve if I’d been paying attention, she thought. The situation with Beatrice was too important to be so inattentive. She’d already started to think about what should come next—a meeting with Judith and Marietta, a note to Quinn to arrange another round of experiments, a talk with Eleanor to convince her all was well. How could she have been so careless with the girl?
“It’s all right,” Beatrice said, “truly it is.”
“No, it’s not.” Adelaide was touched that Beatrice would try to give her comfort when it should’ve been the other way around. Taking the girl’s hand, she added, “Unless of course, you didn’t wish to hear from her in the first place?” There was always a chance Beatrice’s feelings might be akin to her own when it came to mothers.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Beatrice asked, perplexed. “Wouldn’t you, if you were in my shoes?”
“Have you forgotten that you’ve met my mother? In my case, I’d have to say no.”
“I hadn’t considered that.” The girl looked even more distressed.
Adelaide gave Beatrice’s hand a squeeze. “Count yourself lucky that you had the kind of mother who didn’t require doubt, and that you’ve lived a life where embracing joy wasn’t a dangerous endeavour. Missed messages aside, what did you think of the experience overall?”
“It was all very interesting,” Beatrice replied, “the books and the scientific instruments were fascinating, and I liked Dr. Brody too. He’s gentlemanly and so smart.”
“I agree,” Adelaide said, her cheeks turning warm.
Beatrice gave Adelaide a slight nudge with her elbow. “I believe Dr. Brody thinks quite highly of you too.”
Nudging back, Adelaide said, “So you’ve taken up reading minds, have you?”
Beatrice laughed. “I suppose I should add that I quite enjoyed using the spiritoscope. The mechanics of it caused me to feel as though I was leaving less to chance, which leads me to wonder if the ghosts might feel the same? Mr. Brody’s communication was so steady and sure, but then, of course, I have to take into account that he built the contraption himself.” Thinking of her mother, she wondered if today might’ve been her only chance to receive a message from her spirit. In her heart, she hoped not.
“Does that mean you’d like to try it again?”
“I think so,” Beatrice replied. “Yes.”
“Excellent,” Adelaide said. “I’ll let Dr. Brody know.”
As the carriage wheels ground to a stop, Adelaide picked up her skirts, but before she could exit the cab, Beatrice caught her by the arm. “Would you mind terribly if I spoke to Miss St. Clair about it first? I’d like to hear her opinion on the matter. It’s been so hard for me to know how best to proceed with my new abilities, and she’s been awfully kind about helping me find my way. Sometimes I wish I could gaze into a crystal ball and see exactly what’s coming, but Eleanor says
that’s not how they work.”
Adelaide wished she had two eyes so she could roll them both. “Yes, of course you should speak with Eleanor, about everything we’ve discussed and more. As far as looking into the future goes, I believe I can help with that. I imagine you’re getting rather tired of feeling so unsure.”
Walking through the shop door, Adelaide took Beatrice by the hand and led her back to her table for a consultation.
Miss Beatrice Dunn. Inquisitive, bright, full of promise. Unbearably lovely in every way.
Her question: What does my future hold?
Her cards: Prudence. Fortune. Hope.
Adelaide’s answer: Heavens! I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a more fortuitous spread.
“Is that good?” Beatrice asked, carefully inspecting the cards that Adelaide had placed in front of her. Each one held the image of a formidable-looking woman, more goddess than human in dress and stature. Prudence was dressed in Roman garb, a mirror in one hand, a spear with a large snake wrapped around it in the other. Fortune stood naked except for a scant piece of cloth draped across her middle and a length of cloth wrapped over her eyes. Wheel at her back, she was holding two purses fat with lucre. Hope, dressed demurely in a long flowing gown, was standing in the crook of an anchor. Her face was calm despite the stormy seas that raged beneath her feet.
“You see who those fine ladies are, don’t you?” Adelaide asked. “Each one stands for someone you know. She who stands at the crossroads of decision, giving insight, wisdom and forethought; she who spins the wheel on behalf of those who seek her, never allowing despair to get the best of her, for she knows good luck is bound to come around again in time; and she who serves as an anchor for our souls, a refuge for our hearts, the last thing left in Pandora’s box.”
Pointing to each card, Beatrice assigned each of the goddesses a human counterpart. “Prudence is Miss St. Clair, Fortune is you, and Hope, I suppose, is myself?”
Adelaide gave a wide smile. “How perceptive of you. Well done.”
Beatrice shook her head. “But I’m not quite clear on what it all means.”
“I’d say it means we’re good company for each other,” Adelaide replied. “We’re better together than apart. This bodes well for everyone’s future—yours, mine and Eleanor’s.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Beatrice saw Perdu waddling towards her with a stray card pinched in his beak. “Is that for me?” she asked, as the raven drew near.
“What’s that he’s got?” Adelaide asked.
“One of your cards,” Beatrice replied, showing it to her. The image on the card was that of a young woman, face to face with a snarling lion, her hand inside the beast’s mouth. The girl’s expression was serene even though the lion was clearly untamed. Thinking that the frightful-looking token had appeared by magic rather than chance, Beatrice asked, “What do you suppose it means?”
Courage. You will face an unexpected challenge that requires fearlessness and great strength.
Since the day she’d received the cards, Adelaide had never had one get away from her like that. Perhaps it had escaped to serve as a reminder of Beatrice’s current situation? Yes, Adelaide thought, let’s leave it at that.
Plucking the card from Beatrice’s hand she swiftly shuffled it into the deck. As she turned her head, her vision went cloudy and off-kilter. Before her sat two Beatrices—one, lovely and inquisitive, just as she’d always been; the other, a pale, trembling wreck of a girl in great distress. Head bowed, Adelaide willed the vision to fade. When she looked at Beatrice again, the frightful image was gone. With a nervous laugh, she said, “It means I should pay better attention to what I’m doing.”
Evening came and Adelaide left for dinner at the hotel with Judith Dashley and Marietta Stevens. She’d invited Beatrice to join her, but Beatrice chose to stay behind to wash dishes and discuss the day’s events with Eleanor.
“Do you think I should try using the spiritoscope again?” Beatrice asked, drying a teapot.
Eleanor replied, “So long as you’re mindful in what you’re doing, I don’t think it could hurt.”
“But you can’t say for certain?”
Eleanor furrowed her brow, placed the pot on the shelf. “Communication with the spirit world can be something like baking a soufflé. You can use all the best ingredients, follow the instructions to the letter, and still wind up with a confusing mess—oftentimes because of something silly, like heavy footsteps or a slammed door. Although I can’t say for certain how things will go the next time around, I can promise you this—I’ll be right by your side should you choose to pursue it.”
“I’d like that,” Beatrice said. Swirling a tea towel inside another pot she asked, “What does it take to be a witch?”
Washing the pot’s lid, Eleanor said, “Curiosity, attention, tenacity, courage and an unshakable belief in things unseen. What did it take to be Beatrice Dunn before all this began?”
“Much the same, I suppose,” Beatrice said with a shrug. Thinking of the card that’d escaped from Adelaide’s deck she added, “Excepting, perhaps, courage.”
Eleanor frowned. “I don’t believe that, not for a minute. Think of what brought you here in the first place. I dare you to say courage had no part in it.”
Beatrice, embarrassed, smiled at her.
“My mother was right to say the world has need of more witches,” Eleanor explained. “She worked diligently to help the many women who came to her for assistance. She healed their bodies, minds and hearts as best she could. Still, she felt she had to hide. I suppose in a sense I’ve been hiding here, too, albeit in plain sight. I often worry what might happen if certain people were to discover what I do. Throughout the ages witches have been hunted and put to death. I’m sure you’ve read the tales, heard the stories?”
“Yes,” Beatrice answered. “But the witches in those tales were bad. They deserved what was coming to them.”
“Ah-ha!” Eleanor said, wagging her finger. “That’s exactly what the storytellers want you to believe. I guess you haven’t come across ‘The Princess Who Wished to Be a Witch.’ The grimoire will show it to you should you wish to read it. Imagine what the world would be like if all mothers told that tale to their daughters.”
“Do you believe everything your mother said about me during the dumb supper?”
“Yes.”
“But why me? Why now?” Beatrice asked. “What good does it do me, or anyone else, if I’m a witch?”
“You’ve barely gotten started and you’re already working magic. Think back to your encounter with Judith Dashley. She’s been changed by your words, her heart healed.”
“Is that what I’m supposed to do then?” she asked. “Spend the rest of my life talking to spirits?”
“Among other things,” Eleanor said. “But I believe there’s far more ahead for you than that. My mother’s words indicated several gifts—the Wisdom of the Mothers, the Language of Dreams…”
“Do you believe in the Dearlies?” Beatrice asked. She’d read of them in the grimoire and found the notion of them intriguing. “Or is that just another tale? Sometimes it’s difficult to tell the tales from the truth.”
“The grimoire doesn’t lie,” Eleanor replied. “Its wisdom takes many forms within its pages—recipes, spells, sagas…and yes, even fairy tales. Every word within it holds truth. As fanciful as it might sound, the Dearlies are real. Have you had any dreams since you arrived?”
“No,” Beatrice said, “at least not any that I can remember. It’s no wonder, though. I’ve had a dreadful time getting any rest, because of, well, everything, I guess. When I sat with Mrs. Dashley she mentioned a tea you’d given her to help her sleep. Do you think it might help me?”
Fetching a large canister from behind the counter Eleanor said, “Let’s find out, shall we?”
The tea was made from mugwort, peppermint, chamomile, rose petals, valerian root, burdock, yarrow and bog myrtle, and as the canister said, the perfect tonic to ready t
he body for sleep and the mind for dreaming.
Beatrice watched as Eleanor measured the mixture into a teapot then added hot water so it could steep.
“There are a few things you can do to entice the Dearlies, too,” Eleanor said. “You must let them know they’re needed. Here is how you go about it.”
Listening intently, Beatrice took down Eleanor’s instructions in her notebook. Place a drop of honey on top of each bedpost. Tie a sprig of lavender above your head. Fill a muslin pouch with anise seeds and tuck it inside your pillow. Sprinkle marigold petals on the floor beneath your bed.
“Last but not least,” Eleanor said, “the Dearlies adore anything that shines, like raindrops on holly leaves, or morning dew on spider webs. If you’ve anything that sparkles and glints—a ring, a hair comb, a ribbon with silver thread—wear it to bed.”
“I’ve just the thing,” Beatrice said, remembering her mother’s glass brooch with the wren’s feather inside it. “Should I be worried about nightmares, though?”
“Some witches believe you should always guard against them, but I only do so if they make pests of themselves, returning again and again, refusing to leave me alone. Nightmares are like the rest of our dreams, they come to us for a reason. The Dearlies make them with your exact dimensions in mind. A dream always fits.”
Pouring herself some tea, Beatrice hoped Eleanor was right.
“If you wake in the night,” Eleanor said, “come tell me your dreams. It’s been a while since I’ve made sense of them for someone else, but I’m happy to try. As my mother used to say, ‘An uninterpreted dream is like an unopened letter.’ The more you pay attention to them, the more they repay your attention. At the very least, write down every detail you can remember, whether it’s at midnight or first light.”