by Laura Bickle
In the center of the basement floor stood a well. Celeste had explained that basement wells were common in houses of this vintage, to ensure clean water was available year-round for the house’s inhabitants. Our well glowed with a soft golden light, like the movement of sunlight over a pond in August. I was accustomed to thinking of this as the wellspring of the Summerwood witches’ power, the root that reached deep into the earth as a conduit for our magical gifts.
Celeste reached for a mason jar full of silver coins on a shelf. She shook out two coins. She gave one to me and kept the other for herself. I held the coin in my palm until it was warm. It was a silver dollar, shiny as the moon. When I was ready, I tossed it in the well, and Celeste did the same with her coin. It was tradition to cast the moon in the well, and since the moon couldn’t shine in the basement, we cast silver coins in to keep the magic going.
Celeste stood on one side of the well and extended her hands, palms up. I stood opposite her and placed my hand in hers. When there had been more witches here, the energy was easier to raise. But now it was just the two of us.
Gold light played deep in the well, feeling warm as sunshine on my face. I relaxed immediately, feeling that familiar caress.
A thought flitted into my head. “Celeste. If you were to sell this place, what would you do with the well?”
Celeste shrugged. “I would fill it in. A couple truckloads of dirt and stone would do it. Without witches to work it and feed it coins like a vending machine, the magic would sleep. Maybe forever.”
The thought of that elicited a twinge of sorrow in me. I bit my lip.
“You know the history of the Summerwood witches,” Celeste said, changing the subject.
“Yes,” I answered, watching misty images form in the cauldronlike bottom of the well, obscuring the water. “I know that they fled here from persecution in Massachusetts. That Estelle Summerwood walked the family west, until they came to a field. She pointed to the ground and said that this was the place that we would make our home.”
Deep in the well, the brilliant outline of a woman pointed to the center of a field. Grasses swirled around her in a circle, as if a cyclone formed.
“That’s what you’ve been told,” Celeste said. “It’s only partially true.”
I jerked my head up, surprised. “What do you mean?”
“The witches of Summerwood were more than capable of handling any human persecution. They left because of the Casimir.”
Shadows roiled at the bottom of the well, chasing female figures across a landscape that had suddenly grown dark and starless. The shadows followed the witches with gleaming eyes, chasing them through a forest. My breath was jagged in my throat. Helplessly, I watched as witches were caught by the shadows, dragged into the endless pool of night that swirled around them.
“Why?” I whispered. “Were the Casimir some kind of religious authority, or..?” I knew that witch persecutions were not uncommon, and that the pool often showed abstract and metaphorical images to illustrate its truths.
“The Casimir are descended from the Cathars of the ancient world.”
My brow wrinkled. My magical education had included a history of persecution. “They were Gnostics then, believing in a dark god and a light one?”
The pool coalesced into two spheres, a bright one and a dim one, circling each other.
“Yes.” A smile played on Celeste’s lips. I could tell she was pleased that I remembered her lessons. “And the Cathars and Gnostics were exemplary folk, persecuted for their beliefs. They were damaged by the Crusades and ultimately wiped out by the Inquisition.”
I wanted to close my eyes against the image of destruction that unfolded before me: war, torture, death. But I forced myself to look, to try to understand.
“There was one survivor of the Inquisition, Albin Casimir. He was a very wealthy man who managed to bribe his way out of prison before he faced the gallows. His mind and body were terribly warped by the torture he’d endured, and he vowed that he would never again face such treatment at the hands of men.”
I leaned forward, seeing the black shadow of a man limping along a bright horizon.
“Albin fled east, beyond the reach of the Inquisition. He became a collector of magical artifacts and lore that he found in his travels. He passed this information on to his sons, of which he had seven. He believed that only magic could defend his family against the church. His descendants carried on his name and mission.”
The figure was joined by seven men behind him. As his shadow grew faint and faded, those seven multiplied, again and again, creating an army.
“These men created magical experiments through the ages, experiments of awful power. Some assisted Erzebet Bathory in procuring women to murder to preserve her preternatural youth. Others looted the pyramids in the hopes of gaining the secrets of necromancy. I suspect that still others participated in the Nazi regime’s occult experiments.”
I winced at the horrible images that bubbled up: blood and death and war. “But what did they have to do with the Summerwoods?” I asked.
“The Casimir sought magic, not only in tools or in dusty books. They had become aware of our family, primarily by accident. One of them, Gustave Casmir, had come to America to investigate the Roanoke disappearance. He thought that there was some magic behind it. He had found nothing of use, but he continued to explore until he found himself witnessing the witch trials.”
A shadow watched a woman burn at the stake. The image made my mouth go dry.
“If he understood persecution, then why would he persecute us?”
“We had magic. Magic they wanted. Gustave sent for more men.”
An army of men marched across the land in the well.
“I don’t understand,” I said, shaking my head. “A witch is not an athame or a spellbook.”
Celeste’s gaze darkened. “They meant to take the Summerwood women as their unwilling wives. The Casimir had no magic as their birthright, but if they could produce heirs with true witches, then they would gain immeasurable power.”
I shuddered.
“The Summerwoods fled. They fled until they came here, to this place.” Celeste’s face was veiled in shadow. “Here, Estelle found the vein of power, the ley line that stretches beneath this field and feeds this well. She made a stand here, and the rest of the Summerwoods with her.”
I flinched as a battle swirled below me, dark and light figures, tearing at each other, falling stars flung back and forth. The ground grew soaked with light and dark blood, mingling into a grey sludge.
At last, a handful of glowing figures emerged, victorious.
“The witches defeated them. They buried them where they fell.”
The sunny landscape was dotted with shadows, buried underneath seething grasses.
“Ugh,” I said. “Do you mean that all those men are buried here?” I jerked my chin up, to the land beyond.
“The men are buried here, and all they brought with them.” Celeste pursed her lips before continuing. “You see, Estelle thought that was all of them. Or if it wasn’t, that the others would never figure out where they’d gone.”
“That athame. That belongs to the Casimir.”
“It belongs to them.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. And they will want revenge. And...” Celeste stared down into the well. “They will want this power. The power of the land.”
“Fuck.”
Celeste didn’t bother to chastise me. It wasn’t like it was really cursing, anyway. Real cursing used blood and rusty nails and garlic cloves.
“They will use that power, power that will tip the scales to make them the greatest magical power in the world. Then, the Casimir sought an empire in the new world. I shudder to imagine what their ambitions have grown to include in modern times. ”
Celeste’s gaze rested unfocused in the cauldron, where an image of the knife glittered. Behind it, legions of shadowy men darkened the sunshine.
“We m
ust stop them, Luna. No matter what it costs.”
CHAPTER 5
“You can talk to me, you know. It’s all right.”
I sat on the floor beside the maned wolf’s cage, staring into his soft amber eyes. He had allowed me to examine him with surprisingly few complaints. His stitches were holding, and I’d been able to convince him to drink a decent amount of chicken broth. I had removed the IV line since he was alert and drinking; if he was conscious, it was likely that he’d tangle in it or tear it out if I wasn’t careful. I left the catheter in, though, in case I needed to administer fluids or drugs. I explained what I was doing the whole time I worked with him.
But the maned wolf said nothing to me. He curled up in his cage and stared at me over his fluffy tail. I felt as if he understood what I was saying; I gave him instructions to turn from one side to another in my examinations, and he complied. He displayed no aggression, which I found to be unusual in a wounded wild animal.
He hasn’t uttered a peep, Goblin announced from behind me. I’d let him and Beast out to run around the floor for a little exercise. They gave the maned wolf a wide berth, but had no issue reporting back to me.
The strong silent type, Beast grunted, peering into their new roommate’s cage.
I would have expected the maned wolf’s prey drive to at least inspire him to creep closer to the edge of the cage and inspect the guinea pigs. But he did nothing, just watched with eyes that seemed to take in everything.
“Can you tell me where you came from?” I asked him. “Did someone bring you here...someone who was into dark magic?”
The maned wolf seemed to give a deep sigh, the kind dogs offer up when they’ve had a long day at the park. He closed his eyes. I took that to mean that he was tired of my probing questions. But I needed him to talk to me, to tell me what he’d seen. I had decided that he knew a lot more than he was saying, and I hoped he would come to trust me enough to tell me how he’d gotten here.
I stood and yawned, glancing at my watch.
“Come on, you guys. It’s time for bed.”
The guinea pigs groaned and made a halfhearted run to the closed door of the kennel room. I caught them easily and put them back in their cage, adding a few extra treats to reward them for their cooperativeness.
I turned to look at the maned wolf, my hand on the light switch.
He didn’t open his eyes. I had seen enough sad animals to know that the mantle of despair clung to him like a blanket. I only hoped he would survive long enough for me to coax that heavy truth from him.
I left the kennel room and locked up, part of my usual nightly rounds. Picking up a battery-powered lantern, I exited through the back door of the clinic. I stared out at the grassy field beyond, studded with blue and yellow violets and bordered by forest. Night had fallen, wrapping the Summerwood land with the glitter of fireflies and the song of crickets.
Before Celeste’s confession, I had thought of this as quiet, bucolic land. I had never thought of it as a graveyard for dead men. I shuddered, thinking of all the times that I had picked flowers there as a little girl or taken the horses grazing as an adult, unaware that bones lay beneath my feet.
Tentatively, I walked out into the field. The blue violets bloomed black in the dark, and the grasses shivered. Somewhere in the distance, cicadas buzzed. A waxing moon hung overhead, still and observant. It had changed very little since I was a child.
Part of me had wanted very much to fill in the basement well and leave this place. But knowing that someone wanted this power, someone who had the ability to exploit it...
My shoulders slumped. I would never be able to leave, I knew. I felt a momentary pang of jealousy for my sisters, gone to live their lives without guilt or obligation. It had fallen to me to watch over the farm, and now it was much more. Now it had grown into an even heavier responsibility, one that I didn’t think I would ever be able to escape.
I had thought about calling Halley and Starr, about telling them what had happened. But each time, my hand stilled on the call button. They had been silent when I’d e-mailed them about Celeste wanting to sell the farm, and I wasn’t sure that the revelation of dark sorcerers wanting to take over the land would inspire any more interest from them. I was envious of them, to be certain. But summoning them back home to fight an ancestral battle would do them no good. They were hundreds, thousands of miles away. They were safe from the Casimir. They needed to stay far away, protected.
While I dealt with this. Whatever this was.
I crossed the field to the barn. Only then did I click on my flashlight to illuminate the grey and splinter-studded door. I pulled it back to peer inside.
The horses were already dozing. I patted noses and murmured at them, checking their water, as I passed their stalls. There were three of them, all abandoned animals that I’d been able to intercept before they’d been put down. Only one of them, a chestnut gelding I called Cyrus, had a strong enough back to carry a rider these days. From the hayloft, the resident peacock, Marvin, stared down at me, blinking. The goats were drowsing, snuggled down in hay with the chickens, while mice crept in the corners, snatching up forgotten oats.
The mice were not the only nocturnal creatures here. Taffy, the skunk, swished across the floor to greet me. I had hand-raised her since she was an orphaned baby. She was crunching something in her mouth, probably a cicada or a mouse, and she spoke with her mouth full. Good evening, Luna.
“Good evening, Taffy. I see you found a snack.”
The skunk’s tail swished. I opened that cat food bag in the back. I like the new stuff you got.
I made a face. I’d forgotten that I put a bag back there. Nothing lasted long in the barn that wasn’t sealed in an airtight container.
Are you mad? Her tail froze.
“No, Taffy. You go ahead and get it before the mice do.”
Taffy turned to scramble off to the bag. It was already torn open, spilling kibble on the ground. I’d have to make another run to the feed store soon, or the indoor cats would be furious with me.
I checked the water bowls and paused before the cage that held the owl I was rehabilitating.
“Athena,” I said. “Are you awake?”
I knew she was. She was nocturnal, too, watching the mice scurry in the dark. She rotated her head to me and blinked. Of course, she said crossly in her scratchy owl voice. When are you going to let me out to hunt?
“When your wing has healed,” I said.
It’s fine, Athena insisted. She spread her wings wide, but I heard a little gasp of pain as she did so. Her left wing didn’t open as far as her right, and her feathers hadn’t fully grown back in. I could still see where I had removed the stitches.
“I’ll make you a deal,” I said. “Show me how well you fly, and I’ll let you out if you can do a circuit around the barn.”
Yes, yes, she said, shifting from foot to foot as I donned a raptor glove and opened the cage. She climbed on to my glove and wiggled her tailfeathers.
I held my gloved hand out to my side, like a perch. Though she was a big bird, she weighed next to nothing.
“Okay,” I said. “Show me.”
I felt her talons tense on my wrist before she flapped her wings. She flapped them and swept into the air...
...then listed to one side, struggled to right herself, and crashed into the hay, awakening a goat who responded with a sleepy Blaaaaahhhh.
I came to pick her up, plucking pieces of straw from her feathers.
Athena hung her head.
“It’s okay. You’ll get there, I promise,” I said.
She looked at me with golden eyes. But what if I don’t? she whispered.
“Then you’ll stay here with us. Not in a cage. We’ll give you the run of the barn. You can be the chief mouse catcher. You’ll be like Cyrus and Taffy—we could put you in an educational program for schools.”
A chestnut gelding leaned into view. It’s a good life, Cyrus said. She feeds us well and lets us out to play a
nd...
Athena fluffed up. I am not a domestic animal! she hissed haughtily. I was meant to fly. I...
Her wings drooped. I gently put her back in her cage. My heart broke for her. “I know you were,” I said to her. “And I’ll do my damnedest to make sure that you can go back and fly in your woods at night.”
Athena looked at me and blinked. You swear?
“I swear to do all I can.”
I left her then, letting myself out of the barn and into darkness. I knew she was meant to be wild. I knew that wild animals were different from domestic ones; they yearned for freedom in a way that a dog or a guinea pig wouldn’t.
And it always broke my heart when I couldn’t give it to them.
I HEARD CHANTING.
It rolled over me, a soft, formless sigh of Latin. I knew magic when I heard it, and I shuddered. This was not the warm golden magic that warmed my hands within the well beneath Summerwood House. This was something cold, something that pooled and grew strength in darkness.
A chalk circle was drawn on a concrete floor. This place was dark, illuminated by a guttering fire set in a trash can. Men surrounded the ring of chalk, chanting. They were dressed in black robes, and I tried to look at their shadowed faces. Their expressions were severe, distant, as if their minds were focused on the chant alone. One man, a tall man with a fringe of blond air over a gaunt face, seemed to be leading the chant that swelled and resonated in the dark space. He was holding a book, and I took that to mean that he had some authority in this, whatever this was.