Coon Hollow Coven Tales 1-3

by Marsha A. Moore

  “Here I am, Master,” Busby replied as he sailed up from the back of the property. “Mice hide in the daytime. Better eating along the crick.”

  “You found some dinner?” Rowe lifted a brow.

  “Yes, I did. Ready for duty.”

  “Good. We’re going to the carnival again. You know the way?”

  “Yep. By heart.”

  Rowe slid into the driver’s seat and drove the usual route. If there was a chance the little owl could help him against Adara, Rowe wanted him along.

  He parked in the adjoining empty field used as a parking lot. Colored lights of the Ferris wheel and the witch’s brew spinner competed with the afternoon sun. Smells of sugary and savory fried foods made his empty stomach growl.

  He and Busby entered the carnival through the unmarked back gate in the privacy fence reserved for coven folk.

  As he passed inside, a dozen children surrounded Rowe, while his barn owl circled above their heads.

  “Mr. McCoy, look at my carnival dress.” Little Charlize O’Malley worked her small hand into Rowe’s. When he faced her, she pulled the hem of the full skirt out, and her face lit with a cute grin that lacked both upper front teeth.

  Rowe beamed. “Did the Tooth Fairy help you make this lovely sunshine yellow dress?”

  Her smile broadened, and she gave him a shy look through her lashes. “It changes color. Watch!” She dropped his hand and twirled on the heel of her black patent shoes.

  “Beautiful!” Rowe clapped. “The colors of the sunset, just like your golden hair. My compliments to the Tooth Fairy for her guidance.”

  The little girl faced Busby. “Do you like it?”

  “Yes. It’s wonderful.” The owl perched on his master’s shoulder. “You look very pretty.”

  Charlize grinned and skipped beside her older sister who hung at the outer edge of the circle with the young teens showing each other their school projects.

  A hand pulled on the back hem of Rowe’s jacket, and he turned with care to not step on any of the children. As one of ten rotating teachers, he taught coven children the basics of animation, a favorite subject especially among the little ones.

  “Mr. McCoy, look what I brought to sell at the toy booth!” Eight-year-old Dewey Malcolm pushed a toad under Rowe’s chin and commanded the critter “Come on. Make some noise.” He gave it a squeeze between his dirty-nailed fingers, and it yapped like a lap dog.

  “Wow! That’s great, Dewey.” Rowe bent to examine the toad. “You moved some dog’s spirit into a toad. Good job on that difficult technique. And the dog? Does it croak now?” His brows inched up as he gazed at the boy.

  Dewey kicked the ground with the toe of his shoe. “Not quite. Maybe if you listen real close. Mostly Mrs. Vottel’s Fluffyboots is pretty quiet.”

  Rowe ruffled the boy’s shaggy head of thick, brown hair. “That’s okay. You’re learning. And I’m sure all of Mrs. Vottel’s neighbors are much happier.”

  Rosella, his sharpest middle-grade student, held up a doll that spoke to Rowe. “Mr. McCoy, you’re looking handsome tonight.” The twelve-year-old witch blushed and said, “I…I need to make some adjustments.”

  A pack of boys snickered, and Dewey led them in a chant. “Rosella has a crush. Rosella has a crush.”

  “Quiet boys,” Rowe directed. “Rosella, it’s outstanding.” He couldn’t help grinning at both her red face and her accomplishment.” You’ve been able to animate spontaneously based on a set of programmed emotions. Fine work. You’re an excellent animator.”

  One by one, Rowe inspected the marvelous achievements of his students, making sure to move among the older children in the outer circle. “Good job, everyone! Now go place them in the proper booths—either to sell or for display. Both are near the entrance and some mothers will be there to help you.”

  The children scampered away as he watched. Mothers and fathers stood nearby and escorted their young ones toward the entrance. A stab of melancholy hit Rowe’s heart remembering his own stillborn child and departed wife.

  Charlize took hold of his hand and pulled. “Come on. Don’t look so sad, Mr. McCoy. The carnival is about to start.”

  Her corkscrew blonde curls bobbed, and he couldn’t resist.

  With a grin, he submitted and allowed her to lead him and her parents. Rowe’s head pivoted in search of his familiar and found the owl chattering with the robin familiar belonging to one of the mothers. “Busby, come here and stay close by my shoulder.”

  “Coming, Master.” The owl took wing and glided above Rowe’s side.

  The path wandered between easy roller coasters and flying rides for young children. They passed into the central part of the carnival where rows of games of skill and chance were sprinkled with numerous closed tents in a rainbow of jeweled hues. Larger tents housed shows with magical light, sound, or assorted effects. In smaller tents, solitary witches gave readings and predictions.

  Along the main corridor, they paused among the group of children. A few ran back and forth across the wide path from the booth where they could sell their projects to the display exhibit.

  After a few minutes, Rowe called out, “Make your decisions and place your projects.”

  Mothers who worked the booths guided the stragglers and beamed at every child as they handed over their projects. Once all were placed, one plump, middle-aged mother waved to Rowe. “Mr. McCoy, you’ve outdone yourself this year.”

  He joined Mrs. MacElroy at the sale booth. Surrounded by all the wondrous toys and sparkling lights outlining the display, she looked like a plain Puritan. Her high-necked black shirtdress and her salt and pepper hair pulled into a severe bun drew no attention. But her wide smile and cheery blue eyes held her special magic. No one could resist her warmth. “That says a lot coming from you, Matilda.”

  “You seemed to pour all of your extra time into these children this past year, more than ever. And just look what they can do.” She beamed.

  “Time with them helped me.” The main lights tripped on, and the entrance arch blazed behind the still-closed gate. A crowd on the outside cheered. By the loud noise, Rowe guessed there were at least a hundred or more people waiting for the grand opening.

  She patted his shoulder and grinned. “A fair trade. I can see in their eyes that they learned much more than animation. Such fine young ones. We should all be proud of both them and you.”

  Rowe shot her a smile. “Save some of that charm to sell these items.”

  “Will do.” She faced Busby. “And I see you have a smart, young familiar. The son of Maiera should do fine for you.”

  Among witches darting in all directions, Adara sashayed past in black satin evening dress that clung to her curvy hips. She stopped to talk with Lenore and glided into the ticket booth.

  Matilda set to work straightening the projects while she kept an eye on the high priestess who reappeared, clipboard in hand and nodded their way.

  Rowe nodded in response, teeth clenched at the thought of Adara keeping watch on him. He disliked seeing Lenore under her influence and hoped she was okay.

  Luckily, another female witch ran up and pulled the high priestess away to tend to some urgent concern.

  “You may soon find use for a witch’s familiar,” Matilda said with a loud sigh. “Have a wonderful evening, Mr. McCoy.”

  Rowe inched his brows up. It appeared people already knew of his troubles with Adara. “And you as well.” He checked his pocket watch. “Ten minutes. I’m going to get some of Babbett’s pastries before we start.” He looked at Busby. “Maybe Babbett will have a sample for you.”

  “Be sure to try her new fillings. I was her taster this summer. You have my word, they’re good.”

  “Thanks.” He tipped his hat and took long strides toward the food vendor area along the front fence wall.

  Busby flew close by his shoulder.

  Nestled between the elephant ears and snow cones stood Babbett’s Magic Pastries. Several coven-produced food booths were sprinkle
d between those featuring the sugary, greasy foods the public demanded.

  “Evening, Babbett.” Rowe stepped up and scanned the pastries in the long glass case that spanned the entire length of the counter. “Matilda said to try the new ones. Which are those?”

  “Cheese All, Spiceberry, and Coon Hollow Truffle.” The petite, dark-haired woman grabbed a paper sack and rubbed her plastic-gloved hands together. Her brown eyes darted over his head at visitors chasing in all directions along the path. “Sounds like a good crowd outside.”

  “I think it’ll be a packed house with this warm weather. Those new types all sound good. I skipped dinner, so I’ll have one of each. A coffee too, please. And do you have a treat for my owl?” He pulled out his wallet and laid down a twenty dollar bill that would cover the order plus a generous tip.

  “I sure do.” She glanced over her shoulder to her high-school aged son. “Bring a raptor cake from the freezer.” She wrapped each crescent shaped pastry in paper and placed them in the bag, while her son filled another bag and served the coffee. “There you be,” she said with a smile and placed the order on the counter. “The cake might be a bit big for your little owl, but he should like it. Let me know how you like these new pastries. I’m hoping they sell. I’m not sure.”

  Rowe nodded and gathered the food. Hungry and eager to ease her concerns, he pulled out the Cheese All and took a bite. The flaky layers of crust melted in his mouth, characteristic of all of Babbett’s pastries. But the cheese filling contained the real magic. The initial Swiss flavor morphed into Colby as he chewed, then into mild cheddar and finished with provolone before he swallowed. “Fantastic! You’ve outdone yourself with this Cheese All. I’ll talk this one up for sure.”

  She grinned wide and nodded. Her hairnet’s elastic slipped over her long earring and set it swinging. “Thanks, Rowe.”

  He nodded to Busby and secured the half-eaten pastry in the bag, then cut between paths, winding between backs of tents and picking his way over mazes of electric cables. With his free hand, he lifted the flap of his own tent and set his dinner on a side table. Everything lay ready from his preparations this morning.

  His owl flew inside and sniffed the bag with his treat.

  Rowe broke the raptor cake in half, held it out in his palm, and stepped to the tent door. “Eat this just outside, but stay near this tent.”

  Busby snatched it in his beak and followed outside.

  Working with the children and their projects was the fun part of Rowe’s job at the carnival, not the role that would occupy the rest of his evening. Storyteller of the griever’s moonstone. Rowe fought to tie up the flap, the rope slipping from his sweaty hands. Finally successful, he admired the golden cords and strands of miniature blue lights outlining his tent. He exchanged waves across the path with the lady witches who stood ready. Tanya the tarot reader and Penelope the palm reader, his neighbors from last year for this affair—his first as the bearer of the moonstone.

  While his familiar munched and smacked his beak, Rowe fingered the pendant resting against his chest. It felt heavier. The more he thought about the stone and its history, the more it weighed. Strange sort of magic.

  His thoughts turned to the crowd. Was Jancie among them? His heart raced, and he blew out a slow exhale to calm himself. If she could open the locket, nothing would be the same.

  The chain of the pendant cut into the back of his neck.

  The huge gates creaked open. Cheers filled the air. The crowd thronged in, and after their weeks of preparation, the carnival got underway.

  Chapter Six: The Herb Garden

  Jancie’s phone beeped when she left the bank at five o’clock Friday afternoon. Three voicemails displayed on her inbox: two from her father, and one from his wife, Heather. She drove home and listened to the first, fully expecting his anger for spotting her and Rachelle headed toward the carnival grounds at lunch hour.

  “Jancie, have you lost your head, girl? You seem bent on doing exactly what I told you not to do. Your mother must not have raised you right. If I had—”

  Unable to listen to him bash her mother, Jancie pressed delete and moved to the next, sent only a few minutes later.

  “Jancie, I’m sorry I slammed your mother. That was wrong of me.” His recorded voice broke and paused.

  No doubt about that. Jancie sighed.

  “Truth is, she wanted me to look after you once she passed. You’ve been a good daughter, and done me proud. I know you’re grown, but if you need anything, I’m here for you, to help and protect you. Hanging with those witches will bring you trouble. Your mom wouldn’t want that. Please, Jancie.” The recording clicked off.

  Her finger hovered over the delete button, then moved away. She replayed the recording, trying to decide whether his words rang true. She’d never heard Mom dead set against the coven’s witches. Jancie couldn’t decide. Parked in her own driveway, she went on to the third voicemail, an hour later, from Heather.

  “Jancie, it’s Heather. I’ve been wanting to go shopping in Indy for fall clothes, but your dad won’t go with me. How about you and I take a girls’ trip this weekend and stay at a nice motel? You’ve been telling me you need new clothes bad. Dwayne said he’d foot the bill and kick in some shopping cash for you. Let me know.”

  Jancie shook her head, tossed the phone in her purse, and walked to the back stoop of her house. She’d heard enough. Heat burned in her face. Any other time, she might’ve been pleased to get to know her stepmother better. And Jancie did need new clothes. But this weekend, the offer could only be a bribe to stay away from the carnival. The more she thought about the intent, her father’s manipulation, the angrier she became. She knew during their marriage, Mom had trouble with him telling her what to do. Jancie’s whole body shook. She wouldn’t stand for it anymore.

  The onslaught of calls from Dad made her miss her mother’s gentle but firm guidance. Mom always understood and never manipulated.

  Jancie bent low over the neglected flowerbed that filled the small angle between the steps and house. A scrawny volunteer zinnia planted by her mother years ago held up a single orange blossom. The last rainy spell must have given it a boost. Jancie studied the stubby plant that had managed to reseed itself and grow without care. It reminded her of how alone she felt without her mother. She stood tall, pushed her shoulders back, and took a deep breath.

  The hardy zinnia prompted Jancie to survey the back yard. She paid the teenage boy down the street to mow and trim the sparse grass. Against the eastern garage wall, her mother’s garden looked like it suffered from a bad hair day. Vines and stems poked in all directions smothering the few flowers. At the bed, she lifted the hem of her dress above her knees, knelt in the grass, and ran her fingers through the dirt at the base of one perennial. Her mother’s silver ring on her finger felt warm against her skin. The organic smell of soil and the fragrance of the leaves her hand brushed reminded her of Mom.

  Jancie sprang to her feet and ran inside to her bedroom. She changed into jeans and an old, soft t-shirt and wadded her hair into a ponytail. At the kitchen door, she considered taking her phone as usual, but chose to leave it behind. She needed to spend time alone with her mother’s garden.

  She rested a thermos of water under the shady maple tree and rummaged through the garage. Weighed down with armloads of tools, bucket, and watering can, she staggered to the wild patch.

  Jancie set to work on the large garden that spanned the entire length of the garage, weeding and trimming out dead and overgrown stems. Her mother had called them herbs, but only some were meant to eat.

  When her weed pile grew several feet wide and tall, Jancie sat back and checked her progress. Sweat stung her eyes and soaked the hair at the nape of her neck, but the sun on her back felt like the warmth of her mother’s smile. Only a third done, she got back to work.

  Angelica had seeded itself and grew wild between branches of the rambling rose along the garage wall. While untangling the growth, a thorn scratched the bac
k of her hand. The line turned red, then formed an oozing trickle. As she rose to return to the house for a bandage, it seemed as though the heads of golden yarrow fought their way through the thicket. She recalled her mother’s voice. Yarrow leaves mend cuts. Jancie pulled off a silvery leaf and applied it to her broken skin. Within moments, the bleeding stopped.

  She smiled and cleared the weeds from the clump of yarrow, then moved behind to the showy purple coneflower. She ran a finger across the prickly rust-colored center, like she did as a child, and tried to remember how Mom had used this plant.

  At the base, runaway runners of mint plants climbed the sturdy coneflower stems. She clipped the mint back to the confines of its pot. The spearmint’s fragrance filled the air. Jancie took a deep, soothing breath remembering winter evenings spent eating fresh-baked cookies with a pot of mint tea. Mom always kept sprigs of mint with fresh flowers on the table. Lessons Mom had taught her about how to use herbs came flooding back to Jancie.

  She collected her cuttings into a bucket and sat under the shade tree for a break. Like her mother often did, Jancie pinched off a couple of mint leaves, crushed, and added them to her thermos water. After a brisk shake, she took a sip. The cooling scent relaxed her, and she leaned against the tree and closed her eyes.

  A bird singing a sharp note above her prompted Jancie out of the daydream.

  Slanting rays of the setting sun streamed across her outstretched legs. How did time pass so fast? Jancie stood, found the shears cast off in the grass, and cut a few stems of whatever still bloomed into her bucket with the mint: marigolds, purple coneflowers, yarrow, and the last roses of the season. She surveyed her progress, and a pang of hunger rumbled through her stomach. Not even half done. I’ll be back for the rest of you tomorrow. She gathered an armload of tools and stored them in the garage, then picked up her bucket and headed into the house.

  With a dirt-crusted hand, she brushed hair from her face. She stepped out of her tennis shoes, padded to the china closet in the living room, and selected a well-used vase. She filled it with not only the flowers, but also sprigs of mint like her mother always did to protect the house. When asked from what, her mother would laugh and mention some made up names of goblins. Jancie’s stomach sent out another complaint. Ugh. I’m covered with dirt and am so tired. What is there to eat that’s easy? She set the vase on the table and decided to order a pizza.