WILLODEAN (THE CUPITOR CHRONICLES Book 1)

by Fowler Robertson

  Ms. Blanche rolled from her knees to her cushioned rear end on the grass and propped her elbows on the metal chair in the front row underneath the tent awning. She looked exhausted. I leaned against Papa Hart’s casket for strength still wobbly from the reflective image of myself. I mean, she could have warned me or something first, but on second thought, I don’t think it would have mattered much.

  “Willodean. I wantsa you listen to me reals good now. Thiza a long story and I shalz try to explains it as bests as I knowz. But you gon’ havtah quit screaming.”

  I reluctantly agree but I didn’t really have a choice. We sat in the cemetery for an hour, her talking and me listening, reacting, crying, and screaming. I am a reactor. I overreact. I about drove her crazy as she talked but she knew it was time for me to know the truth. She’d heard about my troubles and suspected it was the curse and having the connections she does, to the gift and all, she felt it best to act while she was still alive.

  The story she told me has greatly affected me for better and for worse. I don’t know what to do with all the information I learned. So I’m afraid it’s just sitting in my mind, still trying to digest and absorb and make some sense. My first thought was how in the world did she get my mirror bin? Even I didn’t know where it went after Maw Sue died. Come to find out, Maw Sue and Ms. Blanche planned it that way. Well, not entirely. They hadn’t planned on the stone coming up missing. Maw Sue thought she had just misplaced it, but weeks after it didn’t show up, they had no choice but to revise their plans. Of course, they didn’t realize I had stolen it, until it was far too late to change things. The red stone necklace had a viable place in their mystical union of sacrifices and they were going to offer it up as a replacement to atone for the sins of the betrayal years ago. It was going to be used as a replacement for me, the chosen sacrifice, who happened to be born at the forbidden time. This was the reason for my birth at 3:33. No one but the chosen sacrifice can enter into the realm, and I was that sacrifice. It explains the reason I felt the Amodgian Shadows presence so strongly in my childhood all the time, so close, pricking and prodding and hunting and observing me at every turn, always trying to take me out, ahead of time. They were hungry for me, they wanted me and they couldn’t wait to have me. No one planned it that way, and Maw Sue didn’t even find out, until her and Ms. Blanche put their heads together and figured it out. They relentlessly did research into the old ancients scrolls, and read the Cupitor chronicles until they came to the conclusion. It was the only shot they had. I’m not sure if I feel less guilt or more guilt, now that I know the truth. Since the very beginning, even when she grew tired and went half-crazy doing it, Maw Sue was searching for answers. What they discovered was baffling.

  I was born at the forbidden time of 3:33 and on all Saint’s day or Halloween as they call it now, which is a triple threat. I mean, I’ve heard the birth story a million times over. But I never heard this rest of it. Somehow or another, Ms. Blanche and Maw Sue go way back to a circle of five gifted women long ago. Five women formed a tribe, as their mother’s did before them, and their mother’s, all the way back to who knows when, generations and generations ago. They were the seekers, the Cupitor’s and each had a special gift to share with the world. These women were craftsmen of their trades, Sages with knowledge of herbs and medicinal treatments, metal smiths of fine jewelry and iron works, great minds with empathy and mercy gifts, and the gift of touch for healing, others with the gift of sight and knowledge of the future, and many more. These women knew that a unification of their strengths together as one, drove the powers of the Amodgian Shadows away so they formed a pact. They did it on all Saint’s day, October 31st, and most importantly at the realm of three’s, the intersection of time when both worlds collide, and the veil is the thinnest, and darkness is the darkest. It is then they joined hands and merged together to combine their gifts. They held hands in a circle, underneath a full moon and bound the sacrifice of their lives together in forces to protect the remaining generations and the gifts so important to civilization because without seekers the world would fall asleep in a sleeper trance, unfulfilled and lifeless. The mirror bin wrought and built ages ago, sat in the middle of the circle, its pewter surface reflecting the moon in the night sky as it shone its pristine beams in a prism off each woman’s face as to give its approval. During the ceremony, each woman sacrificed a gift beloved to their heart as a seal of their commitment to the unity of the tribe and to the namesake that each of them was to pass down. It would make a full circle that could not be broken. The gift requirement had to be painful to give up or it would be useless as a sacrifice. It had to be a beloved attachment, a gift so precious to the women, that to give it up would be a sacrifice of soul, a sword to the heart. Each woman gave the gift in secret. They put it inside a burlap bag and placed each one inside the mirror bin. Unbeknown to the other women, a traitor was among them. While the others gave their most precious gifts, one gave an object that wasn’t hers to give. She was a traitor in the midst of seekers. The red stone necklace she offered was not hers to give. It had been stolen and a curse was upon it. When this error was revealed, it caused a wedge in the union of the Cupitor’s and caused a great division amongst them and a great rift ensued. The traitor was thrown out of the tribe and banned from returning. The woman infuriated at her exile vowed to make them pay, so she placed a curse upon the tribe. The Dresden curse. And ever since, the Amodgian’s have full access to hunt and prey upon women in particular, in attempts to steal their identity, their precious namesake so they will never fulfill their created purpose as a Cupitor. The tribe has been fighting the curse ever since. There are millions of Dresden women out in the world today, lost without identity. When I was born, Maw Sue noticed a change. No Cupitor had ever been born at 3:33 during the forbidden time. She could find no information in the old scrolls, so Maw Sue was at a loss as to what would happen in my life and how she could even help me. Ms. Blanche said she decided to make a commitment. She had never been able to fulfill the gift in herself due to the curse but when I was born she felt as if she had a second chance to make things right so that my life wouldn’t be as messed up as hers had been, or all the women before her that had fell victim to its curse.

  Ms. Blanche said the red stone necklace was the traitors sacrifice but no one knew that until it was too late and the necklace ended up gone. She only thought it soothed her mind but it was a trick of deception. The closer a person gets to evil, the more likely they are numb to its affects. It’s like Maw Sue had held hands with the devil as long as she had that necklace on. The more time passed, the more she turned into a sleeper. Maw Sue drifted between both realms her whole life, a sleeper and a seeker, never fully able to decipher which was which and it’s part of the reason she was so confused at times. It wasn’t until the stone came up missing, that Maw Sue realized the capacity to which she had been tricked but habits are hard to break and when you’ve spent your life amongst them, it is grueling to let go of them. But Maw Sue finally made the decision anyway. She was going to destroy the stone and give herself as the sacrifice in exchange for my life. Because you see, Maw Sue found out that one of the women in her ancestral line, generations ago, vowed to give the ultimate sacrifice. Her child. And down the line, when it time for the vow to be given, it could not be done, for it was the ultimate and hardest sacrifice to make and to fulfill. The vow was broken time and time again. Each time the Dresden curse grew stronger and stronger. Maw Sue’s discovered another vow shortly after that. It was from her mother, a Cupitor herself. It was found inside the journal written in small print and hidden by a corner that was bent down. Her mother vowed that through her bloodline, a Cupitor was to be born that would make the ultimate sacrifice and bind the curse in the fires of sorrow so that no one else would have to suffer and the full circle would be complete forever and for all time. Of course, Maw Sue didn’t plan on me taking the stone necklace but Ms. Blanche said even after it was gone, Maw Sue was hell bent on continuing. And she did.
She took my place. She gave her life for mine. She made lovely her losses and now that the sacrifice has been made, I can live my life as a Cupitor. I can live as I was meant to live. Ah, but then there’s the red stone necklace. It’s still inside the mirror bin for all I know. I don’t remember much after Maw Sue died, so who knows. Ms. Blanche said she had not opened the mirror bin and only did what Maw Sue told her to do, which was present it to me, when the time was right.

  Ms. Blanche said being a Seeker has its advantages and I will find the way to go from this point onward. The only concern I had was first and foremost in my mind.

  “How did I become a Dresden?” Maw Sue’s words come back to haunt my memory.

  “The spirit of the Dresden is the child inside the adult, the child who is broken and wounded, and separated from the adult spirit who is looking for a way back to where it belongs. For a Dresden to appear—something awful had to have happened.” This is what bothers me. What happened to me? And when? And why can’t I remember? Did Maw Sue know I was a Dresden? Was she one too?

  A door slams jolting my eyes from the mirror bin to Papa Hart’s front porch. It’s my Aunt Marlene who throws clothing into a pile off the porch. She halfway waves with her free hand and walks back inside. Papa Hart’s chair sat in the same spot on the porch, unmoved. It was empty, sad, unfilled, longing. I felt myself tipping to that place of shattering, that disruptive place where people break off limb by limb until they are nothing but a pile of bones, stretchy skin and wet tears. Annie groaned as I shut her door. I stood silent for a second preparing myself for what lies ahead. I made my way towards the back porch. I grabbed the metal bar that held up the porch with one hand and swung around it, like I used to do as a kid. For old time’s sake, or just to feel the simple magnitude of it between my hands. Brown paint peels off and sticks to my skin. I walk up to the porch and open the screen door and step inside. I hear voices coming from the back bedrooms. Suddenly dad’s head pops up from behind the bar with a large wooden drawer. “Hey pumpkin. Jump right in. Just pick a place and start sorting out stuff. Take whatever you want.” He turned it upside down on the counter. An assorted mess of junk, metal, tin and papers fall out. The words impaled me like a knife daring me to take nothing that wasn’t mine. “And Lord. I don’t think daddy threw anything away. Do you know Uncle found 13 toothbrushes? Used. I mean, why?”

  “Hmmm…” I murmured unable to find words. “Who’s here?”

  “Just about everybody, I think.” Dad said. “All over the place. There is a lot of stuff to go through.” I was paralyzed not sure what to do or even if I wanted to participate. Something about it felt wrong. So wrong.

  “I’m just going to walk around for a minute.”

  “Well, okay.” Dad said emptying another drawer. He pulled out several objects, inspected each one and tossing them in different directions, some even in the trash. My stomach turned. Just walk Willodean, just walk I told myself. I stepped across the floor slow and light, taking in every detail of the house, the color of the walls, the old floor planks, the stained ceiling, the old light fixtures, the way Dell arranged things in her own style. I knew I’d never again see it this way again. In the bathroom, right below the light switch on the right side of the lavatory cabinet was a blue travel case, a Samsonite special edition. The lid is still open. It’s been that way since Dell passed. It holds all the contents she took with her to the hospital. Toiletries, Maybelline mascara, coral lipstick and a powder case with other personals. Sticking out of the cinched pockets below the round mirror is a toothbrush, some Jergins body lotion, hair pins, and a beige bristle hair brush. She checked in the hospital for surgery. The travel bag came home. Dell never did. The blue bag has sat in the bathroom in the same place, ever since then.

  Dad and I went to check on Papa Hart a few months after she passed. Dad wandered off in the house while I visited with Papa Hart in the kitchen. Dad stayed gone a long time until Papa Hart got suspicious. Unbeknown to us, and with good intentions, dad had boxed up some of her clothes and other items. Out of sight—out of memory, or that was dad’s thinking. Spare his father some unnecessary pain. But when Papa Hart found out, he exploded.

  “Don’t you touch another goddamned thing, you hear me?” He said going off like a rocket. He grabbed the box and dumped it on the bed and pointed to a frame hanging on the wall.

  “You see that picture right there. Right there.” He said pushing dad with his hand. He shoved him clean to the wall where a sepia image hung in a tarnished gold frame. It was a picture of an old truck with cattle boards on each side of the bed and inside was practically everything they owned at the time, or so says Papa Hart. Standing in front is Papa Hart and Dell looking as happy as they ever could be.

  “That is the day we moved in our house.” Papa Hart said. Dad didn’t say a word and neither did I. Papa Hart yanked the picture off the wall, tore the backing off, pulled the picture out and shoved it in dad’s face. “You see the writing on the back?” Dad stood dumbfounded afraid to say anything. “It says, setting up housekeeping this day. March 28, 1942 Wildhurst mill. Your mother wrote that. It meant something to her. It meant something to me. From day one….” He paused and gripped his lips together as if he was going to bawl.

  “Since that day, she has been setting up housekeeping and by God THAT is how it’s going to stay.”

  “Alright pops.” Dad said backing off and his hands up in the air. “I was just trying to help. I didn’t know.”

  “Well you’re not helping. Leave my shit alone. I don’t mess with your stuff, now do it?” Papa Hart eyes were on fire. He rushed around the room and put her clothing back in the closet where it belonged. He missed her something terrible. For him, Dell setting up housekeeping was all he had left. And by God, it wasn’t going to change. In his house, life went on as if Dell was still in it. In the kitchen, on the refrigerator hanging by a fish magnet is a grocery list in Dell’s handwriting. It lists bread, milk, eggs, fig newtons, paper towels, cinnamon, beer and butter. I remember the biscuit recipe and wonder if it’s still inside the mirror bin. I enter the living room. Seashells wind chimes hang from the ceiling lifeless without clatter. Without wind. Souvenirs from fishing trips hang from the rafters and sit on tabletops. Dell’s favorite lamp, the red lava lamp sits motionless and still, and with lumps on top of the television set. Mag and I could sit for hours watching the lava acrobatics, it was hypnotizing. Dell’s knitting needles and sewing patterns are stacked neatly on the table right beside six or seven photo albums. When I past the nightstand in the hallway, I lose my breath. On top sits a King James Bible with a long stemmed red rose on top. I plucked it myself from one of the flower arrangement at Dell’s funeral and when I got home, I told Papa Hart the story of the Mason jar, the immortelles, the everlastings and how it takes your grief and pain away. I wanted to help him, take his grief away, his pain, his hurt. Papa Hart didn’t seem too interested in the story at all. He just smirked, cursed the air and grabbed his whiskey. I dried the rose for him despite his refusal to accept and a week or so later, I put it on top of Dell’s bible and from the looks of it, hasn’t been touched.

  I enter the spare bedroom and sitting in the corner is the 1964 Singer sewing machine with a striped shirt still in its clutches, unfinished. Instantly, I hear the threading like a locomotive and her voice, “Girls, look what I made you.” And she’d be holding them God awful patchwork shorts. A big smile covers my face and I’m filled with joy and sorrow. Underneath the table, there are piles and piles of old patchwork fabric she’d been saving for years and a whole stack of patterns. I sort through a few patches of fabric I remember wearing and put them in my pocket. On top of the table, against the back wall are four jars of buttons and a basket of assorted thread. I take two jars, one for me and one for Mag. She’d appreciate them as much as I do.

  I heard new voices and realize the rest of the family has shown up to overturn the place, box up things, pocket and take things. I’m not sure how long I walked through t
he house like a ghost taking in the fullness of it all, but the whole time, I could see figures moving past me, hauling, dumping, and sorting but I was lodged up somewhere in time, reenacting my childhood in this house, jumping on the bed, hiding in the corners, playing in the closet, sitting at the bar with Dell watching soaps, asking a million questions, making biscuits, smelling the sweet scent of Papa Hart lighting a cigar, hearing his voice telling a story, front porch sitting, back porch sitting, hide and seek—I was there all over again. And then…squeak—squeak—squeak. The sound jerks me to reality. My uncle passes me. He’s rolling a metal tray down the hallway and out to the porch. I hear it land in a trash pile with a crippled bang. My aunt rushes by me with a handful of clothing and lays it in three plies across the room. Dad is at the bar sorting through Dell’s jewelry box and intermittingly wiping tears. I felt sick and overwhelmed with grief. The everlastings, the immortelles wasn’t working. Papa Hart’s voice filled my head. Stories, porch times until the entire foundation became a haunting chorus in my ears. Every cut, measured board, detailed trim, every square inch built by hand, hammered, honed, sanded, painted—all of it, balked and screamed. All the hand sewn curtains, the quilts, every inch of fabric. The house mourned and wept its missing occupants while intruders ransacking it. In my gifted vision, I saw Papa Hart walking behind each person saying, “Hey, wait a minute. That’s mine. Put that back. Where are you going with that suit? Dell made that for me in 57. We went dancing. Hang it back up right now. Don’t touch that! That’s a pearl necklace I brought in France after the war. No one can wear that but Dell. Put that back. You hear me? Put it back.”

  When I could take no more, I ran to the sacred place. No storytelling, no words, no change, no moving, no throwing things out, no sorting, no piles, no unsettling feelings—just porch silence. I flopped down on the edge of the steps and squalled like a baby.