The Witches Of Denmark

by Aiden James

  I think this is enough background to finally discuss what happened in 1877….

  What no one believed would ever befall any of us hit the Mateis that year. For reasons unknown to this day, Toma Matei, Simion’s kid brother, began to age and he did so rapidly. Not sure if the rumor of a counter spell to naștere la întuneric by a powerful Croatian wizard who hated Valerian has any merit, but in the end, the blame fell instead upon my grandmother’s head. When Toma’s condition had worsened to where the physically sixteen-year-old had seemingly overnight become his natural age of ninety-three, Irina sent for Grandma, who was just as frantic to find a way to reverse what was happening to the former youngster. By then, Irina and Valerian had tried every spell available, and the European Elders were also at a loss on how to fix this disaster. In fact, the Mateis thought there was nothing that could be done, and planned to travel to Europe in hopes of tracking down the wizard to make whatever amends were necessary to get him to recant the spell.

  But Grandma knew of a possible way to “bind the Devil’s hand’, as she put it. But it came with a cost. A human life—and not just any life—was required. It had to be a witch, or warlock. Not necessarily the semi-immortal kind, but one that practiced the same canon of dark spells. When a fellow countryman who had moved to America just before the Civil War, and who also had a softer version of life longevity became the candidate, Irina and Valerian canceled their plans to sail for Europe. The victim’s name was Sorin Gabon, and my parents have described him as a true pig of a man. He had previously blown both families’ cover, causing both clans to be chased out of Scranton, Pennsylvania by a superstitious crowd bearing torches and pitchforks—even in 1860. It’s how the two families ended up in Rochester, NY.

  Despite my grandmother’s suggestion, once it became time to apprehend this warlock for sacrifice she began to have misgivings. According to Grandpa, she anguished over the taking of another human being’s life. True, Gabon was a complete scuz-bucket (I really like that modern term, by the way). Endangering witches or warlocks from both families by exposing their true natures was a very real and serious thing… and an offense worthy of death, according to The Code. But the sanctity of all life wore heavy on her heart… just not heavier than her allegiance to her dearest friend, Irina Matei and her youngest child.

  The scheduled midnight ceremony to kill Sorin Gabon arrived on a clear, moonlit night in September. The warlock was tricked into thinking he would be made an equal of the Radus and Mateis. When the terrified man realized instead that his blood would be shed to save Toma’s life, he fought with all of his might to escape. Sorin called upon the demons and spirits he claimed to serve when his pleas for mercy from my grandparents and Irina and Valerian went ignored. Grandma has repeatedly stated it was almost impossible to ignore his cries, and she forced herself to focus only on her devotion to Irina and the base nature of this unscrupulous sorcerer.

  Soon after Sorin’s throat was slashed and his blood mingled with sacred dust from the most ancient Romanian hills, and before my grandmother finished applying the muddy paste as a cross to Toma’s face and chest, my Uncle Manuel became afflicted with the same mysterious disease. Toma grew younger and Manuel took his place as an aged man.

  I can scarcely imagine the spot my grandparents were in—Grandma was left with the horrible choice of either carrying out the final incantation and saving Toma, or watching Manuel suffer the same aging fate with no way to heal them both. She was torn and Grandpa has talked about how she turned away from them both, crying in agony, and praying out loud to the gods and goddesses of her forefathers to spare Manuel and Toma. Suddenly, Toma began to weaken again, and in turn, Manuel—his best friend in this life—quit aging. It was then obvious to all present that one would die and one would live—regardless of Grandma’s efforts to intercede. The death of Sorin Gabon proved needless, and in fact, was an ill-fated decision.

  Realizing she had made a horrible misjudgment, Grandma fell to her knees, refusing to choose, while Valerian, Irina, Magdalena, Simion, and all the Matei siblings and wives begged the same deities for Toma to be saved over Manuel. On our side, everyone else said nothing—stung by the Mateis’ overtly selfish response and badly frightened by what was happening.

  I’m told that Grandpa sought to comfort Grandma, ignoring everyone else, as she was beside herself with grief. Immediately, following his act of compassion, the ancient forces that preside over our unique race of mankind made their decision known. Manuel was spared. In a matter of minutes he fully recovered, while Toma not only reverted to the ripe old age of ninety-three years, but kept going until his bones and flesh wilted to dust. The last of his horrifying screams were nothing more than dry, empty rasps.

  My mother has spoken of a series of powerful wind gusts that swept through the clearing where this ceremony took place, gathering the lifeless body of Sorin Gabon and the dust of Toma and carrying them away. Once the wind and its contents had disappeared, so had the dear friendship between the Radus and the Mateis. Forever.

  Within two years, my family had moved under the threat of death at the hands of their former friends. My grandparents and Gabriel’s siblings fled to the Chicago area, and my parents crossed the Atlantic to Romania. At least that was the intent. As I stated near the outset of my story, my arrival while Mom and Dad rested in Paris was what brought them back to the United States and to Chicago. By then, the war between the Mateis and us had claimed mortal allies—dear family friends of ours. And although every attempt to kill a Radu in return for Toma’s death was rebuffed, to this day the Mateis and Radus are sworn enemies of each other.

  So, aside from a history lesson, why is this important now?

  That Friday afternoon, Dad and I stopped at the local Kroger on the way home from a visit to nearby Fort Donelson’s battlefield, to pick up a few items that Mom forgot to buy from the local Wal-Mart Superstore. As we entered the grocery store, Valerian and Irina Matei were walking out. We should’ve noticed the Mercedes convertible with the Illinois vanity plates “Matei 1” in the parking lot. Or, at least discerned the cool charge that moves through the air whenever these witches and warlocks are near, like the coldness of an early spring rain about to drop a deluge.

  “How nice, Gabriel… Sebastian,” said Valerian, as Irina eyed us coldly. The age reduction mentioned by Grandma and my Mom must’ve progressed further, as the pair looked at worst pushing forty-five—a good ten years younger in physical terms compared to Grandpa and Grandma. “I guess you’ve heard the good news, no? Like you, we are now Denmarkians, I suppose. We certainly can’t be Danes… or are these southern people that ignorant to assume such a thing?”

  My father merely nodded, drawing smirks from them both.

  “Hmmm… maybe we should call ourselves Danes,” said Valerian, grinning with unbridled malice. “After all, long ago we were Romanians when we first set foot off the ship in New York. We became Americans that very day… remember? Now we can be Danes… some destined to thrive, and some destined to die…. Please give our regards to Georghe and Florin.”

  We watched them all the way to when they reached their car. Almost too afraid to move, I thought of the pair’s unquenchable thirst for revenge and slaughter, and the hundreds of victims they had taken life from during the past century alone. Valerian waved at us before driving away, and then my father and I staggered into the grocery store. The locals passed us without noticing much, despite our obvious tenseness. But outside, I caught several people looking up into the cloudless sky as if searching for signs of a coming thunderstorm they sensed in the air.

  Chapter Nine

  As anyone can surely picture, the mood at the ole Atwater house was pretty glum on Friday night. Despite watching a few movies together as a family and playing Scrabble and Taboo, all of us were sitting on pins and needles. Waiting for a shoe to drop, or some sort of sorcery-based Molotov cocktail to come crashing through one of the front windows from our longstanding enemies.

  A ‘Welcome to De
nmark’ housewarming gift of an ominous kind seemed likely… just a matter of when it would happen.

  With the exception of Grandpa and Dad, we retired earlier than usual. Our patriarch and his son kept watch through the night, spelling each other for catnaps when needed. Honestly, I expected to wake up to the same gloomy atmosphere and outlook the next morning. However, Grandma’s protective spells and infusion of positive vibes to the already warm feeling the house emitted on its own seemed to be working. Other than a brief unpleasant moment where we had to get after Grandpa again for sitting atop the eastern eaves of the Beauregard’s upper roof to watch the sunrise, Saturday truly had an optimistic feel to it. It only got better with an invitation from Julien and Meredith to join them that evening for a last minute, thrown-together, neighborhood barbeque dinner in their backyard.

  Sounded like fun, and a great way to meet some of the other neighbors we had heard about—including the ones mentioned by Julien the day before. If nothing else, the distraction from our looming direct confrontation with the Mateis was a welcome event.

  It was nice to go outside without the prospect of yard work hanging over our heads, and Alisia and I spent time watching nearly a dozen kids chase each other with their bikes down Chaffin’s Bend. The surly ‘Horseshit’ Harry Turner came out once to shout at them, issuing a belligerent stream of profanity when they rode through the straw-covered front lawn he was apparently still nursing back to health after his infamous mistake from three years past. His surprisingly lucid vernacular shouted in rage made Alisia blush, though she’d likely deny it.

  Sadee and a few members of the school board stopped by to deliver the preliminary budget proposal for the fiscal year that would commence August 1st. I guess our astute and always inquisitive elderly neighbor noticed the six broomsticks lined up against the hall tree in the foyer, based on the conversation we caught part of as the board members decided to view the flower beds in the courtyard below the back porch where Alisia and I were taking in the local neighborhood action.

  “Are y’all plannin’ to fly away?” Sadee asked, good-naturedly, as she and the other three board members exited through the foyer door that opened up to the back porch. Dad and Mom were with them, and Sadee offered her warm infectious smile to add further levity to the joke. “I see you’ve got your broomsticks all lined up in there.”

  Everyone laughed, including Alisia and me, though our laughter was more subdued than that of the ‘adults’. Humor, it seems, is a generational thing despite my sister’s and my advanced ages in human terms. Repeating high school every year for decades had created a generation gap just as pronounced as the ones normal people dealt with.

  “As a matter of fact, all of us are ready to fly away on our broomsticks at a moment’s notice,” said Mom, smiling weakly.

  More laughter. But if Sadee had a chance to get to know Mom better, she would likely have seen the hint of worry that had reappeared since breakfast. Meanwhile, Dad’s placid façade was holding up surprisingly well. And, yes, the broomsticks were out and ready, just in case we had to vacate the house and flee Denmark with little or no forewarning. It depended solely on the Mateis’ game plan.

  After Sadee and the board guys left, Dad told us he had been officially added as an officer serving the Nathan Bedford Forrest Academy for the Arts, or NBFAA, as the locals affectionately refer to the large three-story building looming above the rear of our property.

  “They want me to get familiar with their books, since I’ll be taking over as treasurer,” he said proudly. “I officially start the Monday following the Fourth, in two weeks.”

  “Congrats, Dad!” I said, while Alisia gave him a big hug.

  Of course, this could all be rendered moot if the Matei threat worsened before he could be sworn in.

  “We would be better served to not think like that, Bas,” cautioned Mom, alerting me that her intuitions were on a heightened reconnaissance mission that morning. “In fact, Florin and I decided it would be nice to book one of the bigger pontoon boats at Kentucky Lake, and take a few friends out with us to see the really nice fireworks display they have here each year. Sadee raved about it, and when I called half an hour ago to try and rent a boat for the day, the nicer company we saw in the Yellow Pages told us they had just received a cancellation earlier this morning. Apparently they book up a year in advance for the July Fourth holiday. The fact we now have a reservation for a boat seems like the positive sign we’ve needed, in order to not panic about recent developments. So, let’s all take deep breaths, chill a moment, and live our lives like things will work out for us here in Denmark. If things don’t work out, or we find that the Mateis are especially aggressive this time around, we’ll reevaluate then.”

  Very sound advice, actually, and something the three of us nodded to with some enthusiasm. No doubt, Grandma was already in agreement with Mom’s thinking, and Grandpa said last night he had no intentions of leaving Denmark until he was ‘damned good and ready to move on!’”

  “So, I guess it’s time to get you two back into the yard and working again,” teased Dad, earning an immediate groan from my sis. “Just kidding… I think we’ll give one of the panhandlers who came by here the other day a shot. Sadee said to beware, since almost all of these guys have prison records.”

  “You’re not just assuming that because they’re black, right?”

  Count on me to not let a comment like he made just slide by.

  “No, Bas, I’m not,” he said, eyeing me as if I had just injured his feelings, though his smile remained mostly intact. “Apparently, Julien and Sadee told me there are white panhandlers out here, too. I would’ve hired whoever came by our house first, and seemed dependable to show up for the job—something that often doesn’t happen around here. But the guy named Andrew, who came by here yesterday, seemed sincere enough.”

  “Why not hire the kid named Harris, that Julien told us about?”

  “I tried… he’s booked solid through the rest of summer,” Dad advised. “His reputation as a smart, dependable worker has placed him in high demand around here. I just hope I don’t rue the day we hired you kids to tend the gardens. Julien said Harris was available two weeks ago, but has taken on several projects since that time.”

  “Sorry Dad,” I said, wishing very much that Harris had stopped by a month ago. Then again, I’d be missing a valuable reference point regarding ‘Horseshit’ Harry if Alisia and I had been spared the menial task. “How much were you going to pay us, by the way? This is the first I’ve heard of—”

  “I didn’t mean it literally,” he said, perhaps unaware he had cut me off. “There’s nothing either of you kids are entitled to that we wouldn’t buy for you. As long as—”

  “It fits The Code,” I said, chuckling at the irony that our family and the Mateis had two very different views of the European Charter. I mean, does a law or guidelines have any teeth if it is rarely enforced? “Or, The Code as not interpreted by the Mateis.”

  Maybe it was unfair. But to Dad’s credit he eyed me thoughtfully without delivering the rebuke I admittedly deserved.

  “Well, regardless, you two are still on reprieve from the yard until further notice,” he said, largely ignoring me once Alisia erupted into more exaggerated gratitude.

  Maybe that’s what he needed. Maybe it was what we all needed, especially as we shared a good laugh about the silliness of trying to look like the neighborhood kids, when in fact nobody else’s kids living along the streets bordering our property were doing the chores mentioned. Either they were young enough to be chasing one another on their bikes, or old enough to realize selling drugs can make a helluva lot more money than working at Burger King.

  Regardless, no one from around there was moving through a normal human being’s geriatric years while impatiently waiting to look old enough to buy a beer at Kroger or a local liquor store.

  * * * * *

  The barbecue was fun.

  The visit from Serghei Matei was not.

&nbs
p; Allow me to talk about the barbeque/neighborhood party first, or what started out as a party, and then was interrupted by a punk asshole, and finally restored to a pretty good time amid nervous glances.

  Not exactly the ideal way to enjoy a Saturday evening, but it certainly fit my spoken wish to the universe for a little more action and a lot less boredom in my ‘Denmarkian’ life.

  We arrived as a family at our new friends’ fabulous Victorian pad across the street just after seven o’clock that evening. Julien met us at the door, once again without us getting to experience the chimes that little Twyla Tidwell had complained about not hearing the previous afternoon.

  “Well come on in, my friends!” he enthused. Julien was already pretty lit, holding a tall glass with something stronger than his ‘preferred’ vodka and cranberry juice. Smelled like Jack n’ Coke to me…. His eyes carried the slight glint of an inebriated mind—not to mention a smile pulling painfully upon the sides of his mouth. He might’ve looked like the Joker from Batman, if not for his thick moustache, as he motioned for us to follow him through the kitchen to the back of the house. “Everybody’s outside, and Meredith is finishing up with the burgers… I mean, barbecue.” He laughed.

  “Well hello!”