Witch's Mystic Woods

by Marsha A. Moore

  “Thanks. I’ll follow up on this. Let me know if anything suspicious happens. Call me anytime.”

  “Thanks. I will.”

  He started toward the door, then paused and turned, rubbing the back of his neck. “And I’ll check with the other councilmen to see if they can help you with some extra ways to earn a little. To make up for Sibeal’s behavior at the market.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  He replaced his fedora low over one eye, touched the brim, and left.

  Larena stared at the still-ringing door, trying to comprehend what had happened. Irked at her inability to think through the events of the last few minutes, she headed back to the workroom. She pushed up her sleeves, threw on the apron, and picked up the sanding block again. Honing in on the grain of a maple side table peeking from under dull remains of stripping paste, she applied grit to wood. Several strokes later, she stopped, mind whirling with the spiraling cloud of sawdust. Why can’t I hear this maple by now? I see it, and maple is always talkative when I lay it bare. At this pace, I’ll never finish what I need to sell during the holidays.

  She leaned her weight into the sander and muscled a new patch clean, in case the previous area had met some unthinkable damage from previous craftsmen. Sweat beaded around her hairline. Her arm hung shaking and limp, as if she’d not been accustomed to the labor since childhood. Still no interchange with the maple.

  Spent, Larena leaned a hip against a counter and stared at the inscrutable table, blaming Reid Peterson for her lack of focus. She picked up a staining rag and tore it in half. The rough noise sounded like music, but did little to soothe her rage. She ripped the cloth again and again. Maybe I should curse him. Give some frustration to Mr. Cool and Confident. What do I have to lose? Her anger redirected to herself, and she flung the shredded bits onto the counter. Thoughts of vengeance felt good but wouldn’t solve anything. It was enough that he and Sibeal were plotting to get her land. They didn’t need to disable her magical focus, too.

  Accepting that she couldn’t complete any work today, Larena busied herself with routine housekeeping. While she swept sawdust from the floor, the front door jingled again, this time with the soft familiar cadence of family entering.

  “Larena, it’s us come to visit,” Betty’s cheery voice called, and soon she appeared around the corner pushing Mom in her wheelchair. “Didn’t see that you had any customers and your mom wanted to come over.”

  “Come to visit. Come to visit,” Mom mimicked and hummed as her pale blue eyes lit and skipped around the workroom but never landed on Larena. Mom’s detachment, usual lately, drove a wedge that widened a void in Larena, a cavity wrought by alienation and absence of support.

  Larena’s upper back stiffened against another wave of frustration as she watched the changes in her mother. She didn’t blame Mom for treating her so coldly. It was the illness. No, the illness didn’t manifest coldness to others, only to the ones in its death-grip, choking them of their warm, loving memories. On a normal day, Larena could catch her misinterpretation quickly. What seemed like callous, aloof behavior from Mom revealed merely a lack of perception, with no bearing upon Larena.

  But today, it took longer to become aware, to connect the hurtful behavior with the root cause. And in that gap of a few seconds, she believed her mother truly didn’t care. Her indifference slashed through Larena and lingered. A stab of pain she didn’t need after facing Sibeal and Reid Peterson today. Against a throat swollen with self-pity, Larena swallowed hard, trying to wash the defeatism away. She’d allowed that ache by letting the Peterson Corp.’s intentions weaken her. She must fight back, but how?

  Betty moved behind Larena and rubbed her shoulders. “Stiffer than a sun-beaten fence post. You all right? Seem awful quiet.”

  “Yeah. Well, not really.” She hesitated, too distraught to explain what had happened with Reid Peterson. “I had a visit from a pushy salesman today. And Sibeal destroyed the magic in my sale items at the market. Not a good day.”

  “In that case…” Betty took off her thick black cardigan and pushed up the sleeves of her purple-flowered shirtwaist dress. Massaging harder, she pressed deep into the knotted muscles around Larena’s shoulder blades.

  When Betty finished, Larena forced a smile that failed and seemed too sour on the outside. “Thanks.”

  “That smile doesn’t reach your eyes.” Betty’s frown pushed ridges into her brow, and she slung an arm around Larena.

  Mom reached out a shaking hand, which Larena didn’t hesitate to accept, regardless of the reason it was offered. Like Betty had massaged, Mom also rubbed, not put off by stains of paint, sawdust, and sandpaper grit. That indifference was real love.

  Tears welled in Larena’s eyes.

  “You’re taking on too much.” Betty said. “Why don’t you head on out for a walk in the woods to clear your head? That always does you good. Irene and I will stay here and watch the shop during the last hour, then we’ll all have dinner together. How’s that sound?”

  Larena stood quiet, reluctant to pull her hand away. “Can’t hurt.” She leaned down and kissed Mom’s fuzzy cheek, then exchanged leather oxfords for sturdy boots and the apron for her father’s old Carhartt jacket, which hung on a peg near the back door. She glanced back at them, hoping to catch a glimpse of acknowledgement from Mom. Larena knew she shouldn’t cling to those longings, but the warmth of Mom’s hand had given hope. It was too much to expect, and, on this difficult day, the disappointment stung badly. I should’ve known better. Stress is making me too vulnerable.

  Chiding herself for self-pity, Larena took on the cold winter air. She denied the tremors shaking her core and crossed the back of the property, not once looking in the direction of the Kilfoyle place.

  She entered the trail head and, not taking time to use the stepping boulders, leaped the narrow, frozen creek that marked their property line. From there, through Indiana state forest land, the route angled sharply upward out of their small valley. Larena crunched the boot treads into the ice-dusted soil. Eager to embrace strenuous effort and burn away stress, she angled into the hillside and enjoyed the toil. She ran from her mother’s dementia, from Sibeal Soot’s cruel grin, and from Reid Peterson’s devious and tempting eyes.

  Several minutes later, she arrived at the crest, heart pounding and gulping cold air. The sun sat low, close to the horizon. She didn’t have long before dark since Winter Solstice was only a couple weeks away. But knowing the return path well, Larena pushed on, desperate and determined. Burning off negativity had to restore her focus. Everything depended on her: the family’s heritage, the deceased relations who continued to live as empowered souls on the property, and, most importantly, comfort for her mother’s last days.

  Over the years, seeking solace and rejuvenation, she’d hiked every trail within four or so miles of home. Or so she thought until she came upon an unfamiliar junction. Since Dad’s death, there hadn’t been as much time for long ventures.

  More than ready for something new to ease her troubled mind, she turned. Only six inches wide, the path seemed to have been formed by deer or other passing animals. To take in the experience, Larena slowed, winding downhill toward a small ravine. She touched trunks within reach on either side, hoping her ability to interact would restore. To her delight, several tall oaks vibrated robust greetings to her, which she returned and couldn’t help but blurt, “It’s great to be here,” though wood didn’t communicate verbally. She made certain to touch or transmit messages to as many in this oak grove as possible.

  Almost upon a glade, the next tree, a sapling, had no voice. She rubbed a hand up its young, smooth trunk. Nothing. And the same silence from a larger hickory. As she advanced toward the clearing, the pattern continued. Had she lost touch with her witchcraft again? How, when she felt more at ease, her blood pumping with vigor?

  She stopped outside a ring of a dozen mature and gnarled trees, of a type she couldn’t distinguish, bordering a large circular clearing. Inside, ever
ything stood unnaturally quiet. No squirrels chattered, no birds flitted between branches. Leaves fluttered, though soundless and without any breeze. What was this place? Was it magic? Trying harder to interact with an old oak, a patch of red appeared staining its trunk. What looked like blood oozed to the ground and trickled toward her feet.

  Larena’s pulse throbbed in her ears. Fearful of dangerous effects on her witchcraft, she spun, darted back to the intersection, past the sparsely wooded crest, and into cover of the familiar downhill leading home.

  She skidded along the decline, heels slipping on skims of ice. The yellow lights of home flickering through bare-limbed trees beckoned with a protective glow.

  Thick darkness at the creek forced her to cross on slippery stepping stones.

  While she perched on the largest, a familiar male voice called, “Larena, haven’t seen you for some time.” A fat, gray grizzled raccoon waddled from the brush—Cyril, the Hollow’s Raccoon King.

  “Cyril, have you seen what’s back there in the woods?” Panting, she struggled to talk. “On the other side of this hill. Weird magic in a tiny ravine.”

  “Yep. It’s a nemeton.”

  “A what?” Once on the other bank, she drew closer to him.

  “A sacred space of trees with strong magic. But only for those both brave an’ patient.” He scrubbed a thick paw over dew beading on his long whiskers. “Tried many a year but no luck. My matriarch trees say there are several in the Hollow. If you’re admitted into one, others open straight away.”

  “Why do you want inside the nemeton?” she asked. “It seems dangerous.”

  His voice lowered to a gravelly whisper. “Can be. You can lose your magic. All of it. But if you get inside, your magic grows. Maybe doubles. Did it let you in?”

  “No. Being chased by a stream of blood isn’t exactly a warm welcome.” Realizing that theme of being unwelcome had followed her all day, she clenched her jaw.

  He rose onto his plump haunches and waved a stubby forelimb at her. “My oldest sycamore, Nannan, says, ‘Stay on the bridge between the visible and invisible and you’ll find the magic.’”

  She tilted her head. “What does that mean?”

  “Talk to Grandpa Lockwood. We both know you need in, but he can explain better. Spirits of the dead speak louder than voices of the living.”

  “Larena, is that you? Dinner’s ready,” Betty called from the back door of the farmhouse.

  “Coming,” she yelled with a wave, then faced Cyril. “Thanks. I will talk with Grandpa.” Confused and overwhelmed from the tumultuous day, exhaustion hit. She willed her tired legs to carry her to the inviting glow and tempting aroma of beef stew coming from the back door. With a glance toward Grandpa’s ironwoods, she slipped inside.

  Chapter Seven: Troy Pendant

  Inside the farmhouse, the aroma of dinner made Larena’s stomach growl. Since breakfast, she’d only eaten that one candy offered by Reid Peterson. Why had I accepted his gift? Now I’m obligated to him. No way, forget that. The candy was a ploy to get a foot in the door so she’d listen to his proposal, his willingness to negotiate. What a crock. He’d wasted his time. She would not sell under any circumstances.

  The joy in Mom’s face, as Betty pushed her wheelchair under the kitchen table’s raised drop leaf, steeled Larena’s conviction. Her mother’s few memories, the only connections to the happiness she had experienced, were tied to sensory experiences in this house. Moving away would likely finish crippling Mom’s mind, leave it with nothing but shadows.

  Betty knew this, too, and that uniquely qualified her as a caregiver to the elderly and seriously ill. Her witchcraft gifts rendered her extra sensitive to house spirits, the empowered souls of deceased relations. She could also read sentiments stored in inanimate objects. Tonight’s table setting manifested her special abilities.

  “Pretty table.” Larena smiled at the thoughtful centerpiece, an oil lantern decorated with holly sprigs and golden oak leaves.

  “No bother at all.” Betty chuckled and transferred steaming bowls to the table. “Thought after your hard day, you needed some early Yule cheer. I tucked in bits to remind us of the importance of the coming sabbat. The holly king of the dark half of the year gives up the throne to the oak king’s light, which will soon bring us better times. Goddess knows we’re in need. I can read that lamp ties to the Yule or thereabouts. Does it have a story? Irene didn’t know.”

  “It belonged to Grandma Lockwood, Dora. She used it to take dinner to Grandpa Henry when he worked late on long winter nights near Solstice. As always, you’re spot on about the association. And thank you for finding these things. They do help me remember to remain dedicated to what is important.”

  “With strife, we all lose sight of our path.” Betty brushed a hand along Larena’s shoulder, to guide her to her chair, then wrapped Mom’s hand around a spoon.

  Larena hesitated to sit. “I can help her.”

  “Pshaw. You do this every evening. Help out by convincing your mama it’s good so she eats enough. Her appetite’s been finicky and she’s losing weight.”

  “No need to put on an act. Your stew’s delicious.” Larena took a slurpy spoonful. “Mmm. And pumpernickel bread from Malvina’s Bakery. My favorite. And the tablecloth. Why did you pick this one?”

  “Oh, I thought you needed to focus on how the moon’s waning, how it’s time to release things that don’t do right by you. Doesn’t the cloth have something to do with the waning moon, or am I slippin’?”

  Larena touched her mother’s arm. “Do you remember this tablecloth, Mom?”

  “Yes, this table. Table,” she uttered nonsense, but crinkles in the corners of her eyes indicated a glimmer of recognition for either the item or the sentiment’s energy, which both Larena and Betty perceived.

  “You used this all the time during the waning of the moon when Emery and I were little, to teach us about the natural balance of all energy.” Larena traced a finger along a red rose with fallen petals to other flowers, already bare and swollen at their bases. “These flower heads are now free to widen into rose hips that will contain seeds and, come spring, begin the cycle again with new plants.”

  Mom hummed, her mouth full of bread, and Betty beamed.

  Larena smiled, grateful for these reminders of hope.

  ***

  After dinner, Larena put Mom to bed, then quickly helped Betty clean up the dishes in hopes of getting outdoors soon to talk to Grandpa Henry. With a full stomach, her mother would likely sleep soundly for the next hour. No guarantees any other time during the night thanks to the dementia, which likely swarmed unimaginable images behind her eyes. If only Larena knew a spell that could ease those horrors. She’d give anything to learn that magic.

  Larena walked Betty to her car, then picked her way around skims of ice until she reached where the ironwood trees ended and the driveway turned toward the shop’s parking lot. “Grandpa? Where are you?” She paused and listened but heard only the breeze shifting and clattering bare upper branches. Traversing the row as it led to the front of the property, she whispered to each tree and touched twigs of lower branches.

  From a distant turn on the main road, headlights shined with the bluer hue of a modern vehicle. The same color that glared from the Kilfoyle place last night.

  Larena shivered and reminded herself that plenty of non-coven cars traveled past. Roads here were public.

  Rather than accelerating after the tight curve, the car slowed.

  Standing closer to the tree row than the house, she darted behind a trunk and peeked out. The security lamp near the road outlined a dark SUV.

  Branches twisted to either side of her, and Grandpa gave a croaky whisper. “Larena, stay still.”

  The hoarseness of his voice signaled tension. She didn’t move a muscle.

  As the SUV turned onto their driveway, its blue lights arced over where she hid, then the vehicle stopped. The driver didn’t continue toward the shop or back out to turn around. What was go
ing on?

  Larena barely breathed, afraid to widen her chest and be spotted at her hiding place. Her heart thudded against the tree trunk. Who was in that car? Reid Peterson? She hadn’t seen what he drove. Or maybe the attorney from Hasselwell law firm? They had no business here. She mentally prepared spells to cast, some of the darkest she knew, if the driver showed him- or herself to be any of those trying to take her property.

  Her muscles twitched; she wanted to leap out in front of the vehicle and demand answers, but Grandpa’s branches hugged her closer. He must’ve read her agitation. He didn’t speak a word. His silence conveyed the severity of the potential danger. What did he sense?

  She remained still, though unable to control her breath spurting in ragged bursts. She bit her lip and willed the car to leave or the driver to get out. Anything other than this interminable waiting.

  After what seemed like three or four minutes, the SUV backed out and returned the way it came.

  Fingers still dug into the trunk, Larena gasped, “Grandpa, who was that?”

  “No one I’m wantin’ to meet up with, that’s for sure,” he sputtered. “A man owning a pack of trouble and wantin’ to pass some off onto you.”

  “Was it Reid Peterson?”

  “A Peterson, yep. Any more than that, couldn’t tell. Who’s this Reid fellow?”

  “He came to the shop today.” Though the immediate danger had passed, Larena pressed her cheek to the rippling musclewood bark, letting its coolness temper the heat in her face. “His company’s pushing me to sell our property.”

  “Tall young man with dark wavy hair?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You told him ‘no?’”

  Without determining whether Grandpa meant that as a question or directive, she blurted, “Of course I did.”

  He wheezed a sigh. “You know you can do what you want with the place, long as you and Irene are both safe. But that Reid. I just don’t know. An easygoing type on the outside but fierce as a demon on the in. He drove a pickup earlier but could’ve changed vehicles. The Peterson person here tonight had the same intense way about him. Be careful, Larena.”