Coon Hollow Coven Tales 1-3

by Marsha A. Moore

  Chapter Twenty-three: Mystic Moonstone

  As the setting sun licked the rim of the Grand Ravine, Esme stepped out from her temporary apartment in the healers’ quarters. Although determined to live in Holly Cabin and embrace her grandmother’s heritage, Esme accepted the room while she learned to be fae and the ways of their healers. Six days had passed since she’d made her choice. She’d adjusted to her altered sense of smell the quickest, which was not a surprise. Other sensations still seemed a bit too much, but at least nothing ordinary made her flinch in pain.

  She joined Halcyon and her staff in a nearby garden. Carved holly leaves and patterns of fern frost glistened on the focal totem.

  The lead healer met Esme with a smile that lifted the corners of her almond eyes. When the last few assembled, they set off toward the wide central gathering area.

  Esme lingered behind a moment, paying a silent goodbye to Dove, who she’d buried at the totem’s base earlier that week. He would love being in the forest, where he and Grammy could roam wild and free together. Oh, if only…if only they both could be here now, with me, to hug, to love, to share this vital moment. And Daddy…Daddy, why did I have to lose you?

  With a deep breath, Esme lifted her head and followed the healers to an area of long benches, filled with several hundred winter fae, facing the larger of the two hillside stages. She did still have her mother, and although they’d not always gotten along, she had joined them to offer her support. That meant a lot. So often and so bitterly Esme had longed for that support. Her soul sang like a mourning dove that had located its lost mate. Esme met her mother where she sat in the front row and pulled her into a close hug.

  “Look at you, Reb—Esmeralda,” her mother corrected as she pulled back and cautiously admired Esme. Despite the awkward hesitancy, Mom’s voice rang genuine and warm, wafting around them on a honeysuckle cloud that shimmered against her winter white sweater and skirt. “So lovely. That dress. Is it made of frost?” Esme appreciated Mom’s attempts to make amends, though her wide eyes revealed the fear behind her smile. At least real compassion for Esme prompted that anxiety, carried on whiffs of talcum powder, a mama still hoping to keep her baby from harm.

  “Yes, the lace is frost.” Esme dropped Gram’s red cloak from her bare shoulders. “Two faery seamstresses sewed the dress, then guided me to extend the lace from the strapless bodice onto my skin. That part was fun. My wings are starting to come in. I’m eager to see what they look like.” She briefly turned to show the nubs at her shoulder blades.

  Mom blinked back tears, the turned up ends of her shoulder-length gray hair shaking. “Honey, I’m so sorry for keeping your identity from you. I thought as long as you didn’t use the wayward powers, you’d be safe. Your dad, being one, knew better. I’m glad he helped you…and my mama.”

  “Me, too. I know it must be difficult for you to watch me accept a different way of life, and I’m so grateful for your support.” Esme then took the open seat beside Mom and grasped her hand.

  Clear notes of a lute heralded the start of the festivity. A trio of pipers walked across the stage, an elaborate wooden platform large enough to hold at least fifty musicians. Partially dug into the hill, the stage was protected by an extended roof now decorated with sparkling snowflakes and tiny stars. Winter forest wildlife cavorted and scampered in carved relief along the stage skirt.

  Thayne swaggered proudly, head high, to command center stage. He looked amazing in his ceremonial clothes, with the sweep of a crimson cloak draping from his broad shoulders past black shirt and tight leather pants to tall boots. A neat goatee and mustache enhanced the contours of his angular face. He shimmered with garnets from the clasp at his throat, wrapped into the braids decorating the silver streaks of his black hair, and on all but two of his fingers. Curiously, those held two rings with milky white stones.

  His translucent dark wings fluttered from slits in his cloak. He held up a hand to quiet the crowd’s whooping enthusiasm. The natural shadow of his eyelids gleamed a more vivid purple, far past his sharp, black brows. As his gaze met Esme’s, green and purple patterns of northern lights danced across his irises.

  The winter fae also dressed in their best. Ice crystals dangled from ears and hair, whether worn loose or intricately braided. Preened wings of iridescent feathers, delicate cobwebs, or sheer gossamer adorned their backs. But all wore happy expressions and cheered wildly until Thayne began to speak.

  “It’s wonderful to see our court gathered for such a happy occasion. Please join me in welcoming a special guest, Sharon Freestone.” He gestured to Esme’s mother. “It’s rare for mortals to see our ceremonies, but you are mother to our newest member, Esmeralda Underhill, and are most welcome. We will have much to celebrate this night.

  “First, the matter of the king’s adviser, Grayson. He has attempted to take the life of one of our own, as well as conspiring with witches who conduct black magic and commit heinous crimes of murder and racketeering, illegal in the mortal world, forbidden in ours. For these infractions, he has been stripped of court powers, title, and acceptance. He is to be banished at sunrise tomorrow.

  “His vacancy will be filled by a dear and trusted friend, whom I have relied upon in many difficult situations. The guard corps will face a real loss, but I will gain a valuable aide by my appointment of Shade to serve as my adviser.” Thayne waved a hand to the side stage, and the newly appointed counsel stepped forward, dusty pork pie hat in hand and blue hair sticking out at odd angles over his ears.

  Thayne removed one of the white-stoned rings from his finger and placed it on Shade’s. Following a clasping of hands between the two, the pale stone shone with a blue flash that must charge the moonstone with court power. With a lopsided grin, Shade waved to the hooting audience, then took a seat at the end of Esme’s row.

  Thayne stepped closer to the stage edge and looked at her. “And now, it is my honor to present a new member, Esmeralda Underhill, to the Winter Court.” After pausing for the fae to applaud, he continued. “We are all extremely grateful for your good deed in bringing us an early winter.” In response, wings fluttered and hands clapped. “Esme, please join me on stage.” He motioned to the steps, and somehow she walked to him without ever feeling her feet hit the ground. A lightness lifted her stomach, and she knew no fae magic was responsible.

  He took her trembling hands into his. “As I touch you,” his voice lowered, and the hall grew silent, “I directly feel your power entering my skin, now as a strong winter faery, but also before as a wayward with vast, warring energies. It is a sign to me that we belong together. If you would have me as your husband, I’d be honored. Together, we can help each other discover new paths, new freedom, new happiness.”

  Esme opened her mouth, but words stuck in her throat. Scarcely in command of her senses, her composure hung by a thread, although that thread glimmered with starlit frost. She managed to squeak, “Yes, I will.” Nothing had ever felt so right, so empowering and free.

  He removed the other milky ring from his finger. As he moved the delicate ring near her, the moonstone flared a brighter blue than Shade’s. Thayne flinched, then chuckled. “Proof that I can’t lie. Our powers truly connect. And now I understand Halcyon’s riddle. She knew before me that you and I were connected.” When the ring did touch her finger and slid into place, the surface glowed in myriad shades, from pale sky blue to rich cobalt that reminded her of her father’s eyes. Thayne kissed her gently, then pulled her into a tight embrace, as the crowd whistled and cheered. He ushered her to the side as he addressed his court. “And now, as is our custom at every ceremony, we will have Ivory, our raconteuse, share a story.”

  Ivory, a petite old woman who Esme had met at last night’s dinner, slipped through mist gathering along the ground to take center stage. To those gathered, she bowed her head of flowing white hair that extended to her knees. Smiling, she cleared her throat and spoke with a bird-like warble that silenced the entire ravine. “For this ceremony, I have an esp
ecially grand story to share with you all, one that most certainly Miss Esmeralda will appreciate. I was blessed with a chance to have dinner with her, and something she said jarred loose a memory from this old head of mine.” With cheeks round and red like apples, she glanced at Esme before telling the story.

  “We all are grateful she brought us an early winter, when our magic shines best and we delight and play in the gusty gales, frost artistry, and squalling snow. But what no one can seem to explain is how she did it, least of all Esmeralda herself. But I have the answer.” With an impish grin, Ivory raised a gnarled finger.

  The winter fae leaned forward in their seats, and Esme pulled Thayne a step closer.

  “If you will recall, the last time we enjoyed such a quick start to our season, it was exactly twenty-eight years ago. The ground froze solid weeks before Thanksgiving. A young man, a witch who was visiting the area to turn a dollar doing odd jobs and construction, brought the sudden and lasting chill with him. Some of you know’d him as the one who planted them holly bushes at Grammy Flora’s. Darned berries sing from the tops of their lungs, if they even have lungs, all winter long. Well, he planted them in frozen ground, and the bushes not only lived, but took root, doubled in size, and set fruit in a matter of weeks. Some of you know’d him as a wayward witch who, though a right nice chap, was tormented with his two magics and couldn’t commit to building himself the family he wanted. And one of you know’d him as Dad.” The raconteuse story-teller again faced the couple, her eyes leaking and skin luminescent with joy.

  Esme cupped a hand to her thumping heart.

  “Like father, like daughter, two wayward witches, possessed with winter fae magic, added weeks more to our season of reign.” Ivory extended her arms to the group. “A fitting story to welcome our future queen.”

  The fae rose and applauded wildly as the old woman hugged Esme on her way from the stage.

  Following her, the couple descended the steps to where court members seemed to float across low-hanging frozen mist.

  “Hold up!” The rotund form of Cryptic, the sibyl, hauled herself up the opposite stage steps, hands waving down both the couple and crowd. Although still wearing her usual coarse gray shift, sections of her wiry hair had been tamed into several adorned braids. From the mist clinging to the uneven hem of her dress, a pale gray shape bobbed and jumped. “On my morning meditative walk, something soft kept brushing my ankle. Nothin’ was there but this bit of shadow.” She groaned and reached into the low fog and brought up a handful of translucent gray in the shape of a cat. Cryptic lumbered to meet Esme, who ran onto the stage and accepted the filmy mass of bluish-gray fur. “I’m thinkin’ this here wee ghost belongs to you. Don’t know why it chased down a mean old faery like me to find you. Maybe to give me a chance to do you a good deed, after I treated you so poorly.”

  Esme gently held the weightless Dove to her chest and patted the sibyl’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

  “Another gift fitting our future queen!” Thayne roared above the happy din from his court. “Now let’s all celebrate. Uncork the holly berry wine, and let our good wishes for Esmeralda color the fog crimson tonight.”

  ***

  Esme turned her face to the full oak moon, then she and Thayne entered the Coven Council meeting building. A lot would be decided at tonight’s December esbat. She shivered, remembering the last time she entered the red brick converted school house to face Oscar Burnhard minutes after she witnessed him dispose of Eugenia’s body. She wore full glamour to obscure her faery identity, and hoped it also hid her tremors.

  Thayne, totally invisible, touched her shoulder.

  In the packed Council chamber room, the accused councilman wasn’t present, held without bond in jail. But his cohort Sibeal Soot was there, along with the two other candidates for council. Voting had taken place by secret ballot throughout the day, with results to be announced shortly. Esme wished Sibeal had been removed from the ballot, but the charges of breaking and entering hadn’t stuck. As a faery, Esme no longer feared the seer, but nothing could undo what she’d done to Dove.

  Arms extended from the wide sleeves of his black robe, High Priest Logan stepped onto the altar dais. “Everyone, let’s form our circle.” He walked the perimeter of the pentacle’s circle, reciting solemn appeals to the gods and goddesses of the four winds. At the center, he raised his hands to the heavens and proclaimed, “As it is above, so it is below.” He flung his arms down and touched the floor, then rose and took a position at the altar set at the northern point of the circumference.

  After a nod from him, three men removed offerings from the altar and strengthened the circle. One sprinkled consecrated water on each member, the second carried a smoking incense-burner round the perimeter, and the third walked the same path with a lit altar candle.

  When the offerings were replaced, Logan nodded to two women, standing near the doorway, to step forward. He anointed them with the four elements of nature and admitted them into the circle.

  “Now it is time to announce the results of our Council election.” Logan separated his robe and removed a paper from an inner pocket of his suit coat. “By eighty percent majority, I welcome Tynewell Tynker to the Council. And by a slight margin of two percent, Sibeal Soot will take the other open seat.”

  Murmurs floated back and forth, and people drifted in and out of the circle.

  Esme stared at the paper, shocked. How could Sibeal have deceived so many?

  Logan raised his arms, and his voice rang deep and clear above the noise. “Please maintain our circle.” He waited until the rustling ceased and continued. “This oak moon esbat is a time of going within to assist you in healing and tending to your internal self. This is a time of transformation, as we go within, accept new members, appoint new leadership in our coven.” He seemed to be closing the meeting without mentioning her coven promotion. Had the other council members vetoed granting her ceremonial status?

  Esme pressed her lips tight. After her success at the market with the adder’s tongue fae healing, she badly wanted to pursue her goal to work as a healer. Able Winter Court members all worked in the community, under guise of glamour. She badly wanted to do the same, as a healer in the coven but using her fae magic rather than the witchcraft she’d given up. She could feel both her heart and her goals shrink within her. Unable to endure more, she turned toward Logan and took a step into the circle, a definite breech of ritual protocol to do so without direction of the high priest.

  Although Sibeal and her gang of old cronies hissed at Esme’s action, most of the other witches nodded to her with knowing smiles. Apparently word had gotten out that she’d been pivotal in bringing justice against Oscar.

  The high priest also looked her way and lifted an open palm. With a wide grin, his voice rang loud and clear through the large room. “Especially befitting the significance of this esbat, the Council has chosen to grant Miss Esmeralda Underhill ceremonial status. Since the time of her permanent residence here, a month ago, she has made significant contributions to the welfare of Coon Hollow Coven. She stepped forward as a witness to maintain our rights and high standards of safety. As a healer, she’s quickly stepping into the shoes of our dear departed Flora Freestone, her grandmother. Please welcome Esme as a respected wildwood mystic. Her transformation is evident; let yours also be so.” Esme wondered if Rowe had told Logan of his suspicions, that she was now a faery.

  A second later, her doubt vanished, and his words sank in. She was really a wildwood healer, a root doctor, a mystic—all titles for healers who used the hedge. Maybe not a hedge witch, but that only mattered for what she put on her business cards. She jumped and clutched Thayne’s arm, then was swept up into a hug by the woman who’d bought her products at the last market day.

  Alice and Gertie waved to her from across the circle with little Lottie bouncing between them.

  Logan beamed as he ended the celebration. “Spend time with the oak moon and embrace this time of transformation.” He walked t
o the center, as the members wavered, ready to mingle. “I call forth the powers that cast this circle.” He thrust one hand up to the sky and the other to the earth, fingers open. “All that was taken to cast our circle is now returned.”

  As soon as he closed the circle, witches from all around the room surrounded Esme with warm hugs and kind words of congratulation.

  Epilogue

  Two years later

  Esme relaxed against the driver’s seat as she drove away from her last of eight client visits for the day. Tired but deeply satisfied, she smiled. Today she’d eased rheumatism, tendonitis, gout, two cases of severe migraines, invoked a charm that brought an out-of-work father employment, and evicted two unwelcome ghosts.

  Thankfully, when Esme became fae, she didn’t forget the basics about root doctoring Grammy had taught her. And Halycon’s fae healing techniques worked well on mortals. However, it took some time for Esme to advance further and use the hedge, a spatial plane interwoven with powers from witches and the three otherworlds. Before, as a witch, she’d tried in vain. Guided by her newly exposed fae intuition, the secrets of the hedge opened to her. After some experimentation, she adapted methods from Grammy’s journals and references to grasp the mystical hedge powers from the other side, that of the fae world.

  In the fading sunlight, her moonstone engagement ring glittered with love. Her hands on the steering wheel appeared short and sturdy from the glamour that kept her looking like Grammy’s granddaughter who the coven folk knew. No one questioned whether she was truly a hedge witch. In any case, she never claimed that title, calling herself a mystic healer, wildwood mystic, or root doctor. Those more generic names could apply to any healer, fae or witch, who used powers of the hedge.