Coon Hollow Coven Tales 1-3

by Marsha A. Moore

  A breeze cleared the yew potion clouding my mind. No, those witches would most likely wait until midnight. They needed the veil to be at its thinnest to break my protection spell. Relieved that I had more time, I hissed a breath out through my teeth. I needed every minute.

  My momentary calm screeched to a halt. Could the rising moon’s energy, which would peak just before midnight, enable their black spells? My throat clamped down, sending a reverberation through my ribs. I pushed onward, walking even closer to Cyril, encouraging him to hurry.

  Instead, the Coon King paused at an intersection, lifted his muzzle, and sniffed.

  I fidgeted with the strap of my bag. Was this the crossroads?

  Before I could ask, he toddled off on a new path.

  Three more side-cuts later, I reestablished my sense of direction but trusted Cyril knew where to go. As I walked, I replayed in my mind the riddle the wind had sung to him. The words silently sounding with each step I took. “The near homestead has a spirit and a keepsake, both wanted by the dark beyond. Find use of them before October's second first quarter comes awake, and you'll gain the notch you wish in your wand. Fail and your powers will break, under curse of the dark bond.” I’d only halfway met the requirements. In only minutes, I had to use the keepsake before the deadline. The weight of the task pressed upon my back, and my boots cut ruts into the soft ground.

  Cyril scampered ahead, and I lost sight of him. I relied upon Waapake to follow, using his keener senses.

  “Here!” the Coon King uttered in a hoarse whisper. He pointed his nose in three directions, then faced us. “Aggie, the crossroads you seek. Choose wisely. Only one path leads to the banshee.”

  I peered in the three directions, each blanketed in the same total darkness. No demon breeze gave away the correct route. Nor any groans or shrieks. I withdrew my wand, fueled it until Gran’s amber lit, and swept it across the junction. While pointed to the right, an internal flash jagged through the gem. Hoping to see what struck the connection, I squinted, without success, down that path. With the wand aimed toward the middle route, the firefly inside the amber fluttered its wings, and the wand vibrated against my palm. I took a tentative step in that direction, while testing the wand on the leftmost trail. The firefly thrust against the gem’s inner wall and expelled a beam of orange light that illuminated the trailhead. I choked back a gasp and swerved onto that path.

  After two strides, the third and previously dormant wand twig shot a shower of sparks from its tip. I kneeled and patted Waapake’s flank, then opened my bag. The keepsake shone from inside folds of flannel covering, and I wrangled the box free. The goddess smiled. The pentacle at her waist glowed and moved to her heart. I’d chosen the correct path, and the O’Mara magic now supported me.

  Encouraged, I tucked the keepsake away, stood, and waved for Cyril to join us.

  “This is your journey, not mine. Much luck, lass.” The raccoon bowed, then sniffed the air and scooted back the way we’d come.

  Using the amber beam like a flashlight, I took the chosen direction at a jog. Roots disappeared long before I reached them, except where trees were confounded by yew potion clinging to wisps of gathering mist.

  I kept watch on Waapake trotting close behind. More than once, I lost his outline in the dense fog of shallow dips, where only his bright eyes reassured me of his presence.

  The amber beam hit a wall of thick, white mist. Orange light reflected back, blinding me. I skidded to a stop.

  A deep, mournful wail cut through the heavy vapor. The banshee. I’d been detected. I swallowed hard, afraid but ready.

  I reined in my wand’s beam and began an ascent. Oddly, with increased altitude, the wind remained still, and the low-hanging cloud persisted. Fresh yew potion made me dizzy, and roots tripped my feet.

  Closer to the ground, Waapake whimpered under the strain of the noxious herb. Were the black witches here? They couldn’t have raised Fenton’s body yet.

  The forest thinned to spiky pines. Rocks intermingled with the soft, leafy loam proved another hazard to my stumbling feet. I picked my way up the steep trail. The incline was so severe that the tread of my hiking boots didn’t always hold. My feet slipped from under me. I was forced to hunker over where I choked on the dense fumes. Easy prey for the banshee.

  With a whoosh, a strong gust swept the rocky hill barren of fog, brush, and, thankfully, the yew potion. A gathering cyclone threatened to pull me into the midst of its whirling winds. Ahead lay the giant boulder from the vision I’d shared with Waapake. Fifteen feet high, it spanned more than three times as much in width, the facing side rose at a thirty-degree grade.

  When the whirlwind passed, I dashed to the rock laid bare by ancient forces of glaciers. I secured the toe of my boot into a foothold.

  Frigid air stung my face. My eyes winced. I leaned my weight forward and climbed. I willed my body to hold up.

  A brief blast punched me back. I lost my balance and fell onto my knee.

  Waapake nudged his muzzle against my free hand.

  With fingers grappling for crags, I regained my position and clambered up the pitted surface to the top of the boulder.

  A shrieking gust again toppled me to my knees. The banshee was present and didn’t want me there.

  I clutched tighter to my wand, refueled it with sun energy, and pulled myself up to a secure footing. In the distance, the upper horn of crescent moon jabbed through openings in the tree line. The trees gave a nerve-jangling cry. Goosebumps raised on my arms.

  I rechecked my wand. All three twigs vibrating, I raised it high in the air and cried, “Cursed banshee, on this last quarter’s crescent, I hunt you!”

  A tinny, drawn-out yell responded, and I pivoted toward the sound. The bogus banshee shriek came from the shadowy but unmistakable form of Dulcie Quinn. She slid from behind a clump of pines. The tattered black cloak and gown of her carriage house character whirled around her. She faced the rising moon, long dark hair streaming all around her, and raised her arms. “O great demon, by the sacred crescent’s light, this outsider you must smite! Destroy the sun energy in her, and find Fenton O’Mara’s soul upon your altar. Use his soul to feed the black curse, upon which our dark powers will nurse.”

  The yew potion marking the trail now made sense. The black witches intended to lure Fenton, body and soul together, as an offering. To fuel the curse. And, in turn, their own dark witchcraft.

  I aimed my wand at Dulcie but held off firing hoping the real banshee would answer her with a wail from the far side of the woods. Dulcie’s usefulness now past, I zapped her with a stream of gold light, enough to render her unconscious though unharmed. I glanced the way I’d come. No sign of Fenton, body or spirit, yet. I had to hurry.

  The demon shrieked again, decibels louder.

  The temperature dropped. My teeth rattled.

  Another piercing cry knifed my ears.

  The death servant loomed twelve feet above the boulder’s forward vertical drop. The sinuous hem of its dingy, shredded gown billowed over the rock toward me. Matted strands of hair undulated across the rock. Arms of an octopus coiled to strike.

  Waapake hurled himself between the demon and me. The coyote gnashed his teeth at its gruesome, hollow face.

  The banshee opened its cavernous mouth, a limitless depth that seeped aftertastes of powers from countless witches who died centuries before. The stench of that foul breath—a vile mix of rotted flesh, burnt hair, and vomit—made the yew potion smell like perfume.

  I clamped a hand over my nose and mouth.

  The coyote whimpered and pawed at his nose, then his muzzle wrinkled in a teeth-baring growl.

  Mother Coyote’s diaphanous form appeared next to her son. I jumped to his other side. The second twig of my wand, threaded with her hair, filled with brighter magic in her presence.

  The banshee’s gaping mouth stretched wider, nearly three feet across. Inside, a gray tongue writhed like a snake beyond shards of yellowed teeth. “We meet again, Mothe
r Coyote. As by your prophecy, you have brought my destined rival.” The huge mouth twisted in my direction and shot out a gust that pushed me back a step. The serpentine tongue, forked at its tip, licked my boots.

  I fired the wand’s amber tip at the probing appendage.

  It recoiled, and the corners of the vast mouth curved upward. “You, a witch whose powers I’ve not tasted. Tempting aroma. Honey laced with the sting of a thousand bees.”

  I strode forward and lifted my glowing wand. “I’m here to wrestle the black curse from you.”

  “A fight for my dinner!” The gaping hole snapped to a smile as the gown’s tatters wound closer. Bony hands, sparsely covered with shreds of sinew and muscle, emerged from the torn fabric.

  I slashed a gold laser across its pointer finger, the appendage as long as my height.

  The digit twisted into the protection of its knotty palm.

  Adrenaline rushed through my body and fueled my resolve. I repeated the attack on each advancing finger in quick succession. All recoiled.

  The horrid mouth reopened and let loose a painful moan.

  I gritted my teeth to endure the earsplitting decibels.

  The note faded, and the banshee lifted higher in the air. Up to the treetops. The mouth stretched nearly five feet in diameter.

  The coyotes crouched low. Fur stiff and on end.

  I squatted down. My breath came out in rapid gasps.

  The demon descended with a downward thrust. Spewed an icy, potent gale that threatened to blast us from the rock.

  I shifted to a three-point squat, one hand grappling for hold in a crevice. The other still fueled my raised wand. I clung to a shred of hope.

  The coyotes howled into the gust. As in the vision Waapake had shared with me, they stood firm in defiance.

  I squinted, unable to endure the sharp wind pummeling my eyes. Frost gathered on my lashes. The gales impeded my breath. My exhales nearly trapped inside my throat. What if I passed out? It took every ounce of strength I had to fill my lungs with air. I was no match for this evil.

  At last, the banshee trickled its attack to a garbled snicker. “Ready to relent?”

  I rose. Glared at the beast. Waved my wand higher. “Release the black curse!”

  Again, the demon floated its ragged form to the tree-line.

  I needed more defense and wrestled the keepsake from my bag. My life depended on this magic. I brought my wand alongside to add more fuel to the O’Mara tool. Before I could make contact, light from my wand arced to the keepsake’s pentacle. The lit star shot magic back to the wand and zipped into the third twig. All three twigs blazed like flares.

  I commanded the wand to fire at the belching mouth. Three strands of magic, three colors of gold. Each twisted around each other on a path for the snaking tongue.

  The banshee screamed. The mighty rock shook beneath me.

  I crouched. Heart throbbing in my chest.

  A sudden explosion of wind threatened to topple me backward.

  I shot more sun energy into the wand. The cabled trio thickened and burned white holes through the tongue.

  The beast lowered the temperature of its blast. Icy air scoured my face. Burned my windpipe.

  I struggled to keep focus with my wand. My fingers almost numb.

  Coyote Mother howled a new note. Deeper and more guttural.

  Waapake joined her. Their ominous melody swept a hint of warmth around us.

  Feeling eased into my finger joints. Just enough to allow me to thrust sun energy down the wand. I fixed my concentration on a mantra: purge the banshee’s curse.

  Treetops bent toward the boulder. Their voices formed a chorus that recited my mantra. Gold light rained from their branches.

  The energy of Nannan’s forest threaded through my wand’s beam. Heartened, I slashed the menacing tongue. Sliced off its forked tip.

  With a pained mewl, the great banshee slowly shrank, the wandering strands of hair and fragments of gown recoiling to the body. The mouth twisted as if in pain and roared, “You’re just a girl. How could you do this to me?”

  Had I won? Was the curse broken?

  The body continued to diminish to the size of a normal woman. Was the banshee going to shrink to nothing?

  When the banshee’s form stabilized, it spoke in a reluctant tone. “You have gained advantage. I am bound to submit. You may request one wish and pose one question, in any order. But first…you must answer my question.”

  Preparing for a trick, I stood and thrust additional energy through my wand still trained on the banshee.

  Waapake took my cue. He howled a new note, his eerie melody launching more flames into the wand twig that the coyote powered.

  All three twigs burned bright, as if to outdo each other.

  “What is your question?” I demanded.

  “Who sent you to me?” The demon’s mouth curved to form a smug smile.

  I scanned my mind for the person or being who’d started me on this path. There were many possible answers: Nannan, Ellie, Coyote Mother, and Waapake. After more thought, I added to the list: the black witches, Cyril, and the wind who told him the riddle. How could I choose one? The right one?

  The beast tipped its head back. The brown shroud dropped away. Coarse strands of hair sneaked toward my wand hand. The eye sockets drilled into me. “You don’t know.” Its vile laugh resounded from the hilltop’s rocky crags.

  “I do know.” I took a deep breath. My ribs shook from the effort. It had to be Nannan. Her energy had brought me here, all the way from Gran’s old homeplace. Gran! She had sent the message. On the wind that Nannan received. I looked the banshee square in its ghastly face. “It was my Gran, Agate Anders, who I’m named after. She sent me.”

  The demon’s hair coiled and shot high in the air. The mouth opened into a massive black void that issued a wounded howl. The surrounding trees shook with the beast’s deafening note that died to a raspy grunt. “I will grant your wish and answer.”

  I gathered my thoughts, careful to word everything just right. It’d be disastrous to leave anything out. “I wish for you to end the black curse placed upon the O’Mara people, living or deceased, here in Coon Hollow.”

  The banshee shuddered and then briefly bowed its mangy head. When the female form looked up, although still cadaverous, a welcoming gentleness now appeared in the almond-shaped eye sockets. The woman spoke in a sweet, hushed voice. “I am returned to my natural form without evil. Thank you. The curse is removed.”

  “How do I know it is done?”

  The woman waved a fine-boned arm toward the horizon. “See the souls’ lights, awakened early.”

  Lower in the Hollow, a field lit by thousands of lights. The cemetery. But it was not yet midnight. No bells had rung. They celebrated that I’d ended the curse. My heart soared.

  The banshee lifted a delicate finger.

  Angry yells reached me from the direction of my homestead. The black witches had failed. Would they come for me?

  The banshee’s shoulders sagged. Its cheeks hollowed into caverns. “I grow weary. Cannot last much longer here. No souls need my guidance. What is your question?”

  I deliberated. I wanted to know how I could stop black magic in this coven. With that knowledge, I could bring even more peace to the kind people here. But I recalled what Shireen had said before I left. She could live with the black magic but couldn’t lose me. A similar question wrestled its way to my throat. “Where is Fenton O’Mara’s soul?”

  The dark mouth quivered. “I do not know. His soul is gone.”

  A dozen more questions vied to be spoken. “What happened to him? Did the black witches take his soul?”

  “Only one question…” The banshee’s form sank onto the rock. The shroud flowed like liquid down the boulder’s sheer face, where the earth opened to receive the underworld messenger.

  I knelt beside the coyotes. “How can I help Fenton?”

  Coyote Mother howled at the slip of a moon, then stood silent,
ears pricked. She nuzzled my boot and her son’s flank. “Follow.”

  After her, he crept sure-footed down the rock slope with me grasping the back of his neck to keep from falling.

  Chapter Thirty-two: The Labyrinth

  I sped along the forest trail after Waapake and Coyote Mother. Even at our quick pace descending into the Hollow, tree roots lowered well ahead of us. My chest expanded as I enjoyed full, deep breaths. Sun energy pulsed warmth through my entire body and propelled me faster. I couldn’t wait to announce my victory to the coven members at the Samhain ceremony.

  Thankfully, adrenaline from fighting the banshee kept me on guard. The black witches could seek revenge after I’d foiled their plan. I’d left Dulcie unconscious but unharmed, though I didn’t like leaving her alone in the cold, damp fog. Especially since I didn’t know how long she’d be out. I had to trust her friends would find her soon. Maybe when they came to help her, it would delay their vengeful chase. Then they’d be after me. I shivered and patted the keepsake through my bag. Hopefully, the magic I’d used against the banshee would work against their black spells, too.

  The homestead would be the first place Gladys and her group would search. Good thing the coyotes knew another route away from the boulder, other than back to the homestead. The route the coyotes selected couldn’t be called a trail, or at least one for humans. Many times, they waited while I ducked under low branches and grabbed for handholds as I crossed slippery fallen logs. Frustrated, I fueled Gran’s amber on my wand to help me spot the hazards.

  Waapake circled back and brushed my leg to convey the need to douse the bright light. Rather than draw too much attention, he intensified the yellow gleam in his eyes.