Witch's Mystic Woods

by Marsha A. Moore

  “Keep me abreast of which resorts Cindy applies to.” In case Estelle realized the request was self-serving, Sibeal quickly added, “And when she gets her job, too, so I can congratulate her.”

  “Oh, sure will. I’m so glad you sent me to Keir. I benefitted and I hope our little chat helped you, too.”

  Sibeal resisted accepting the offer to unload about how the information impacted her. “I did. Thank you. Have a good evening.” They said their goodbyes, and Sibeal slumped into the nearest chair to sift through her colleague’s momentous predictions.

  Keir’s newly exposed details must be tested, if she had any means to do so. It’s gonna be a late night tonight. Best get yourself up an’ goin’.

  She headed to the kitchen and put the kettle on to boil. The instant she lit the gas stove’s burner, the phone rang again. If that turned out to be Ben Peterson, her other scheduled call, the coincidence between the gas flames and his mission at the nemeton would be remarkable.

  She answered on the kitchen wall phone.

  “Is this Sibeal Soot?” Ben’s deep twang melted her ear. Handsome enough and mysterious, if he’d been single and a decade older, she’d have other business to engage him with.

  “It is she. Did you carry out my directions?” She held her breath.

  “To the T. Not one hitch from Larena,” Ben said flatly. “She jumped at the chance to work up the wood.”

  “Any trouble at the nemeton?”

  “I managed,” he grunted with a half chuckle. “Saw everything you warned about. What a trip. Better’n dope. The limbs you wanted, from the twisted trees in the grove, caught fire with every saw stroke. Glad I took a fire extinguisher, and—”

  “You did dispose of it properly, didn’t you?” she snapped.

  “No one’ll find it.” The gravelly words sounded as if they scoured his throat and sent a shiver of fear and excitement through Sibeal. Their connectedness through the element of fire and mutual greed elicited her rapture.

  “You better hope so. If someone does, they might connect us to what’s ’bout to happen to Larena.”

  “Don’t ride me, you old biddy.” His voice rumbled into a dark snarl and scraped over the bones of Sibeal’s skull.

  “What did you call—” Sibeal bit back the venom erupting from her lips. Anger wouldn’t serve her needs, especially since Ben had dangled the carrot of more high-paying joint ventures if this one concluded successfully. Besides, armed with the recent information from Estelle, Sibeal had the upper hand on her accomplice.

  “You an’ I both know I did yer dirty work. Blood an’ snakes dripped from cut ends of those limbs. Freaked me out even though I’d prepped myself good. Had to bag up the ends to keep from leavin’ a trail. Awkward as hell. Flung the extinguisher into a ravine pit.”

  “Well.” Her throat tightened. Although she warned him about fire, she hadn’t expected so much resistance from the nemeton. Sparks perhaps, but not flames. Even though he was a mortal, the grove fought against him. How had he tolerated those atrocities? If she entered the area, possessing magical powers, she’d face far worse, unspeakable horrors. When the full moon, Solstice, and the nemeton’s opening coincided, she might need Ben to return to the site. She had no room to criticize; rather, she should thank him. She swallowed hard against a sore lump of gratitude. It would neither release and wash down or rise up as verbal appreciation, a prickly emotion she didn’t dole out with any ease. Instead, Sibeal changed the topic. “I assume you applied my charmed desiccant to the limbs and cut the boards without issue. Did Larena question the lumber?”

  “Didn’t seem to. She paid more attention to the fist of cash, three Ben Franklins, I gave her as half down to make a bookcase.”

  Despite his coarse language and manner, he clearly was a savvy business partner and might well win the mall contract for her. Good thing she’d taken a chance on him, even though his brother initially seemed shrewder. “Nice move. I hadn’t thought of payin’ that much. Money’s a good motivator for sure. When will she have the piece done?”

  “Early next week.” He returned to his usual dispassionate monotone, which allowed Sibeal space to regain control of their joint venture.

  “Excellent. I’ll check on Larena a few times. You don’t need to worry with her until next weekend. Then, I want you to call or visit the shop to keep her on track, or as much as possible given the difficult task we’ve assigned her.” A cackle escaped Sibeal’s mouth. “Call me after you do, and I’ll explain how you’ll proceed from there to get your contract signed.”

  “Yup. Talk later.” He disconnected before she had a chance to assess whether he understood her directions. When they met at the market, she’d pegged him as an accomplice. Now she wasn’t as certain. Several times, he surged ahead of her lead, brash and impatient. Desperate. Not so unlike herself. She stared at the boiling kettle on her stove. Acting on his own, would he try to push Larena to sign too soon?

  Given this new development, Sibeal switched pots to one shaped like a toad, which once belonged to her grandma. That pot had given Sibeal success with many recent divinations. She opened the lid and added her best Darjeeling and water from the kettle. She placed her tea-reading notebook onto a fine silver tray. While the tea steeped, Sibeal went to collect the two personal items belonging to the Peterson brothers.

  She plodded up the rickety stairs, struggling against the weight she’d gained since her best friend had left. As she sped her pace, squeaks and groans of the steps increased in volume. From her bedroom, she snatched her purse containing Ben’s pocketknife and Reid’s wooden coin and hustled back into the hallway. Eager to focus on vibrations those objects might release, she misstepped on the stairwell landing. Her foot dropped onto a rotting board she routinely avoided. The heel of her ankle boot lodged tight, forcing her into a contortion so her hands could reach the caged foot. Lacking a chair to aid the process, her spine creaked as much as the aged board. No! I will not succumb along with this ancient manse as my coffin. I will persevere and thrive, no matter who bears the cost, and throw money at this dwindlin’ trap. That’s my vow.

  With renewed determination, Sibeal folded lower and untied the boot. She jerked the foot free, and the reaction tumbled her backward onto her butt. Feet dangling down the steps, one boot on, one off, she yanked the other free and padded down to her kitchen and Grandma’s waiting teapot. She placed it, along with serving ware for tea, onto the tray and carried it to the formal dining room where she always performed her best readings.

  Her mother had taught Sibeal as a small girl to always take time to compose oneself for important divinations: use the best and follow a careful ritual in order to instill calm and focus prophetic thought.

  Sibeal settled at the mahogany dining table and poured from the toad pot into a fine white porcelain cup rimmed on its outer edge with red roses. Only that set of china would do. It had been brought from England generations ago. The cups had wide sloped sides touched by lips of dozens of her relations who imparted their skills.

  She stirred the cup’s contents with a sterling spoon. With the Peterson’s objects resting in her dominant right hand, she sipped and focused on her goal—the coven mall credited to her efforts.

  When only a small amount of tea remained, Sibeal swirled the cup three times before dumping the liquid into the saucer. She closed her eyes while taking three full, deep breaths. Beginning near the cup’s handle, which represented the present date, and moving clockwise into the future, she examined the leaf pattern, the symbols formed, along the sides of the cup.

  First, she determined the zodiac symbol for Aries, indicating fire. The obvious connection to the nemeton, as well as Ben and her, curled her lips. Larena was falling in line with the plan. A spoked wheel hung farther along the cup’s wall. Inevitable change and progress. Good, good. Next, Sibeal came to an X shape, which always meant to take caution, but who needed to heed that warning? Crap snails! I’m blocked.

  She moved to the buffet and switched on
the tulip lamp for closer inspection of the cup. The last three shapes clustered together: an oblong, a heart, and a coffin. An oblong customarily indicated family discord. But whose family? Larena’s or the Petersons’? Or her own? The heart corresponded to a love relationship, and the coffin, a death. All three concealed by the X, and sealed off from Sibeal’s comprehension. Could that warning be for her, to stop trying to delve into what she was unable to see—her own future—or there would be a price to pay? The pocketknife and wooden coin gave no new hints about the two men, or their futures, which must’ve been tied to hers in an unknowable way.

  Sibeal scribbled down the figures, her jaw clenched and pen stabbing the notebook page. She put the cup and objects down and pressed her temples, hoping to stimulate some understanding. None came. She slid fingers into her hair and wrenched tendrils loose from her bun. The tea symbols alone were frightening, but not knowing their deeper meanings drove her mad. Why wasn’t Adara here for her now, like she’d been there for the former high priestess? Although not a seer, Adara possessed enough power to be able to carry out prophesy under Sibeal’s guidance and could sometimes glimpse matters closed to her.

  Sibeal took another look at the cup. Of the three ambiguous markings, the oblong’s significance of family upheaval might be partially proven. As long as she’d lived in this house surrounded by empowered souls of deceased Soots, they did as they pleased regardless of Sibeal’s influence. It was her brother Gilman who actually mattered.

  Hesitating only long enough to stow the two borrowed objects into her purse and put on boots and coat, she headed to her car. Although only a few minutes past nine, she had no idea if he’d be up. Gilman kept odd hours, often talking to tortured souls all night and at any location within walking distance. He had no phone, so communication with him meant driving there.

  Freezing rain had started to fall with darkness. A glaze quickly coated her windshield. With her nerves on edge, it took real effort to slow the car to a crawl around icy turns and caused her rapid pulse to beat and slosh like the ocean against a breakwater. The ten-minute drive took more than twenty before she turned onto his long gravel driveway. At least his oaks, still holding their leaves, provided some respite from the pelting drizzle. Her breathing calmed, whether from the dampening of the assault or being near Gil, she didn’t know. And didn’t care.

  His tiny log home lay dark. Was he in bed already? She considered leaving, but she’d not be able to sleep without consulting him. Maybe one quick knock. If he didn’t answer, she’d not bother him.

  At the door, she clanked the striker, but didn’t call to him as she usually did. No one answered, not even the ill-fated spirits sequestered in his house. She lifted her hand to strike once more, then thought otherwise and let her arm fall. She could come back tomorrow.

  Sibeal turned to leave and walked smack into a tall human form. She flinched but arms wrapped around her. Warm, reassuring wool-clad arms that smelled of damp forest air and the cedar scent of Gil. She melted into him, the lodged lump of gratitude welling up to her tongue. Unlike the directive of the two tea leaf symbols, he was alive and not upset with her. “I’m so glad you’re up. I need you.”

  “Sibby, what are you doin’ outside in the cold rain? The ice storm felled an oak. Its spirits are loose and haven’t friended me yet. Could be a bit wild to strangers. Hurry on in.” He led her inside, clicking on lamps and chatting with his housemates, who seemed like mute bones and tin cans to her, as he went.

  She eyed the filthy, saggy loveseat cushions and decided to remain standing. Momentarily perching her purse on a lopsided stack of books and magazines which threatened to careen off a side table, she plucked out the two items: Ben’s knife and Reid’s wood coin. “I can’t seem to read vibrations in these. I thought you might be able to help.”

  He picked them up and inspected each. “There’s no one trapped in here.” He tapped the side of the knife.

  “I know that. I want you to let me guide your magic so I can read these items.”

  “Aw, Sib, you’re so much better at this stuff. Why don’t you do it?”

  While guiding Adara had always been easy, Gil’s mind was so tormented with conflicting visions of past and future, Sibeal wasn’t sure he could concentrate on a task in the present moment. She touched the backs of his hands. Trained to seek the future an object shared with its owner, her awareness usually came easily but not in this case. She hoped the connection between sibling pairs might enable Gil’s focus. “Feel inside the knife and coin and tell me what you find.”

  His mouth twisted to one side, eyes scrunched. Only if she and her brother were truly not in any discord, refuting the oblong mark in her cup, would he have any chance of accepting her guidance to complete her reading. With knees bent, his face screwed into a grimace and his lips opened into a constrained circle. “Ooh. I see things.”

  She studied his face. “What? What do you see? Describe it.”

  “I see the Horned God.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “He has two faces, front and back.” Under closed lids, Gil’s eyes twitched back and forth. “On the front is the Holly King. His hand’s raised. He holds the knife. Fire’s licking its blade. His brother, the Oak King, is the Horned One’s back face. That brother is waving a hand with the wooden nickel of oak at a gate. It opens onto…oh, I don’t know how to describe—”

  “Please try. You can do it.”

  “It’s a strange place. A patch of flowers and berries and green leaves, but he stands in the snow.” Gil shuddered and his eyes flashed open. “Here, take ’em back. Don’t wanna see more.”

  Her eyes widened. “The Otherworld across the hedge. How can this be? Two brothers, Ben and Reid Peterson, exchange power at Solstice, when the dark half of the year reigned by the Holly King gives way to the light and rule of the Oak King. What does this mean for my plan?”

  “Are you sure that Ben and Reid are the names of the Holly and Oak Kings?” Gil asked, innocent eyes widened.

  Sibeal sank onto the loveseat, submerged into the dilapidated cushion and the enigma of this discovery.

  Chapter Ten: Old Crones’ Dance

  Larena bounced around the shop, tidying up and organizing. She brought out a backboard to use with the five boards a new client brought in to make a bookcase, a super easy way to make six hundred dollars. Part of the man’s cash deposit would go directly to pay Betty for Larena’s past due bill. What a lucky turn of events.

  The man should’ve been able to build the simple design, but claimed he didn’t have time to finish it for his daughter’s Christmas present. His dilemma seemed reasonable enough, given the smart way he dressed in dress pants and a sharp sweater. Those were covered with sawdust from planing the boards in a hurry.

  It would be a quick project for Larena. He didn’t want any fancy antiqued finish, just plain early American stain and a basic enchantment—to make the books stored there loved. One she could do in her sleep, regardless of her stress-impaired magical abilities. His specified finish, tung oil to allow the wood to breathe, would require a day or two longer to dry. He wanted the bookcase ready in a week. Her effort would only require four days tops, so she could start tomorrow.

  Tonight, a Wednesday, her store hours ended in fifteen minutes at five o’clock, and she wasn’t staying one minute later. No need to spoil this good day with a client coming in wanting a difficult job done too fast or a gaggle of window-shoppers usurping her valuable time with Mom.

  As she whipped through the shop closing up, she eagerly eyed the bookcase boards in the workroom. The wood glistened with a red hue, brighter than mahogany, like an unusually pink cherry, that seemed to call to her. She looked forward to using a new wood, like a journey yet untraveled. The client said it was rare but didn’t know the name.

  Since Larena didn’t intend to work late in the shop, she would continue with her Troy pendant and Ogham staves in the kitchen so she could interact with Mom before her bedtime. The more ma
nageable work load lighted Larena’s heart. She missed when she used to enjoy hobbies or free time after dinner, but that was before Dad passed and Mom became ill. A lifetime ago when she was another person, naïve to the responsibilities of adult life. Tonight, having time with Mom and a good night’s sleep made her smile. Grandpa was right—being compassionate and enjoying simple pleasures were the most satisfying parts of life.

  Larena prepped project supplies to take to the house. The ironwood disc had finished drying overnight. She’d punched the hole and threaded a leather thong. All she needed were wood burning tools and Grandpa’s original finished product from the safe for her to follow. Keeping her mind and heart soft while burning the labyrinth pattern would be easier around Mom than stuck here around a backlog of complex magical furniture requests she struggled to complete. Well, all but the new bookcase job.

  As Larena filed her copy of his order, she noted he’d recorded only his first name, Ben, and phone number, no last name or address. She usually caught those errors and wondered why she hadn’t this time. No worry, though; as much as he already paid, she wouldn’t be left footing a bill for unpaid materials and labor.

  She removed her shop apron, smoothed her tan wool skirt, and tucked loose tendrils into her braid, then collected supplies for the pendant into a small tackle box. The sticks to be made into Ogham staves were already at home. Making improved decorations to sell at the coven market had taken her free hours last night. With finishing touches, she’d have a good supply to take tomorrow morning ahead of the weekend shopping rush. She gathered her the tackle box, secured the shop, and scurried across the driveway.

  Twilight had settled early with steely-gray storm clouds. Freezing rain peppered her coat and stung her cheeks, but didn’t strike down her spirits.

  “I’m home,” she called from the mudroom and dropped her things on the bench.