Beneath the Black Moon (Root Sisters)

by Fine, Clara

  “Last week you accused him of trying to drown me,” Cam said, and she couldn’t disguise the hurt in her voice.

  “Last week was last week,” Grandma said in a tone that brooked no argument. “This week I want to believe in Mr. Anderson’s benevolence.”

  Caro snorted. “If he has any.”

  “He is a good man.” They all jumped at the unexpected voice, but it was only Mary, a basket of laundry in her arms.

  “You saw it?” Cam’s heart leapt. She had complete faith in Mary’s talent; the girl had never been wrong before. If Mary said that Brent meant them no harm, Cam would believe it and trust him implicitly.

  Mary nodded, and for a minute Cam felt euphoric. Then Mary added, “On his face, the night he carried you out of the woods.”

  Cam’s heart sank. “Not a vision?”

  “I have never had a vision of Mr. Anderson,” Mary said. “But I believe that he is good.” She sat down calmly at the fireplace and reached for the socks she was darning. The serenity on her face contrasted sharply with the anxiety on Caro’s.

  “Family is family,” Caro said. “His sister-in-law is dying. Even if he is a good man, who can say what he would do for her?”

  “For his brother,” Mary corrected.

  “John?” Cam asked.

  “They are very close,” Mary paused in her work to flex her hand, as though her fingers ached. “John loves his wife more than his life, and her illness is destroying him. Each day that her sickness progresses, he loses more of his will to live.”

  “Mr. Anderson won’t choose us over his brother.” Caro said.

  “He doesn’t have to choose us over John,” Cam protested. “We aren’t the ones who are making Hattie sick. If anything, we should be allies. Whoever is making her sick is probably the same person who tried to kill me.”

  “There is something ugly in that house,” Grandma said. “Something malicious. Perhaps it is one of the brothers, perhaps one of their servants or someone else who is associated with them, but the root of it is there. For all our sakes, and especially yours,” she said to Cam, “I would like to believe that Mr. Anderson is not is involved, but somehow, he is. We have to take precautions.”

  Silence fell at her words. Caro exhaled deeply, and Cam could feel the woman watching her. Mary put down her work and reached for Cam’s hand. Cam flinched away from her, too distraught to be comforted. She knew exactly what her grandmother meant, and it chilled her.

  “I don’t want to,” she said quietly. Her voice sounded brittle, like thin glass webbed with cracks.

  “I know.” Her grandmother said simply, and the rest was unspoken. That none of them wanted this, that none of them had asked for this, and that they all had to make sacrifices. Compared to the loss that Cam had suffered before, giving up Brent shouldn’t have been hard. But it was. Oh Lord, it was.

  “We have to do this, Cam,” Grandma said. “We won’t use it yet, but we need it on hand.” Cam nodded, but as Caro and Grandma worked quietly together, their practiced hands shaping cloth and straw into a doll, Cam felt sick guilt curling in her gut and tears of shame gathering in her eyes.

  More often than not poppets were used to ward off evil, not inflict it. But if Brent proved to be a threat, the poppet would be their last resort, and Cam knew that they could be chillingly effective.

  She could feel nausea rising in her, and a dull aching between her eyes as she stared down at the doll that suddenly had such power over Brent’s life.

  I don’t want to do this.

  I want no part of this.

  This is wrong.

  But if Brent betrayed them, their world would collapse. Cam didn’t know what would happen to her grandmother- what was done with white murderesses that were seventy years old? But she knew what they would do to Caro. She knew that the unkind whispers about her mother would seem like nothing compared to the stories that would circulate when people learned that Solange Johnson had been involved in what the county would doubtlessly label ‘witchcraft’. She couldn’t imagine what it would do to her father. And what of Diana? Since her scandal people had often remarked that she took after her mother. The whole family would be driven from the county, possibly imprisoned. Her father would be ruined, and Caro would be hanged, perhaps Mary too.

  But what will happen to Brent?

  As easy as it should have been to banish thoughts of the man when the lives of all of her loved ones hung in the balance, Cam couldn’t seem to force his image from her mind.

  This has to be done, she told herself. But when Caro handed her the finished doll, which was to be placed on that top shelf with the bone of the black cat, Cam hesitated. She stood under the shelf with the heat of the stove turning her cheeks pink, and when Caro and Grandma turned their backs, she slipped the doll into her pocket instead.

  Chapter Twelve

  For a few days Cam avoided the kitchen, choosing instead to remain in her room. It wasn’t that she enjoyed being secluded up there with no one to talk to and nothing to do; frankly she couldn’t imagine how Diana did it for weeks at a time. No, Cam stayed in her room because she couldn’t face her grandmother, or Caro, or even Mary. She couldn’t help herself, but there was a terrible resentment towards them welling up inside of her. She knew it was unreasonable. It wasn’t as though any of them had asked to be trapped in this nightmare land of fear and deceit. But try as she might, she couldn’t quite forgive her grandmother and Caro for creating that poppet of Brent. She knew where her loyalties were due, and she knew that she had to protect her family at all costs, but she couldn’t quite control the faint tingle of anger— no, rage— that filled her when she thought of someone hurting Brent.

  That was another reason why Cam needed to be the one who kept the poppet. If anything ever needed to be done to Brent then Cam had to be the one to do it. If someone else did it she would never forgive them. Necessary or not, she would hate the one who cursed him forever, and she couldn’t bear to feel that way about one of her loved ones.

  Cam didn’t want to see Diana either, who had been against Brent from the start. She wouldn’t have minded receiving a visit or two from Helen. But in the three days that Cam spent alone in her room her younger sister didn’t knock on her door once. That was only another source of anger. Cam had always been attentive of her younger sister. She didn’t always have time for Helen, but if she thought that something was wrong with her younger sister, she always made time. So where was Helen? Where was she during Cam’s self-imposed exile? What was Helen doing with her time these days?

  Unfortunately, Aunt Beth seemed to have interpreted Cam’s retreat to her room as a sulk following the dressing-down that she had received at Elizabeth’s hands, and so Beth also chose not to visit her niece.

  Finally, on Cam’s fourth day alone in her room, there was a knock on her door. Cam rose, expecting anyone but the person she saw when she opened the door.

  “Father.” She was so surprised that she had no control over her tone, so she wasn’t sure whether she sounded surprised, concerned or disappointed. Perhaps all three.

  “Camilla,” he said, and as Cam stared into his eyes she wondered when her father had last come up to see her. Peculiarly enough, all she could think of was one time when she was young, she couldn’t have been more than seven, and she’d been having a tea party with her dolls. She’d run downstairs to find her father and ask him to attend the party at exactly a quarter to two. Then she’d hurried back upstairs and sat on the floor in nerve-wracking anticipation, watching the clock on her mantel closely. At exactly one-forty-five there had been a knock on the door and there her father had been, in the flesh and ready for his tea. Cam could still remember her delight as he took his seat on the floor, across from her and in between her dolls Millie and Molly. He had stayed for three imaginary cups of tea, all of which she had poured with care from a chipped teapot that her Aunt Beth had given her once it was no longer suitable for use in the kitchen. He had even waited for each imaginary serving
to cool before carefully sipping from the teacup.

  Cam hadn’t thought of that day in years, and it was strange to remember, because within a few years she had become more aware of the slaves, of her father’s role as slaveholder, and she had come to strongly dislike him, much as it pained her. Now, she felt as though she had gone straight back to that day when she was seven, standing at the door hardly able to believe that her father had come to visit her.

  Some of her surprise must have shown on her face, because her father smiled, and Cam, unused to really looking at her father, was surprised by the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. My God, he’s getting old, she thought, and surprisingly enough, the thought made her want to cry.

  “I am going for a walk,” he told her, “and I think you should join me.”

  Cam opened her mouth to refuse, but then she realized that she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been on a walk with her father. And anyway, if she stayed in her room any longer she would go crazy. “Then I will,” she said finally and glanced down at herself to make sure that she was presentable, in case they encountered anyone while they walked.

  “You look fine,” her father assured her.

  Thankfully they didn’t pass anyone on the stairs, though Cam could hear Aunt Beth and Helen talking in the drawing room.

  It was lovely outside. Cam hadn’t realized just how much she’d missed going for her walks until her father offered her his arm and they walked together into the woods. It was late afternoon, and the sky was a vivid orange streaked with violet clouds, almost reminiscent of the day that Cam had drowned. It was lovelier, though, not still and deadly but lively and beautiful. The trees were tall and ancient, their leaves the deep green of summer. The forest smelled of grass and pine needles. Birds whistled to each other, and Cam and her father stopped to observe a tiny hummingbird that darted across their path and hovered over a flower, its entire body beating like a winged heart.

  They passed the cypress swamp for which the house was named, and the path grew a little soggy underfoot. Mr. Johnson had to pause once when his boot became stuck, and he laughed at Cam, who hopped lightly from one dry spot to the next, in order to avoid the mud altogether. The water of the swamp was deep green, still and shimmering under the graceful fronds of the Cypress trees. For a moment, Cam’s heart was in her mouth. She hadn’t been near a body of water larger than her bath since the incident at the creek. As she stared at the mirror like surface of the swamp, it was as if she were once again under the water, staring up at that beautiful, unbroken surface and knowing that she was dying. Then something, perhaps a frog, leapt into the water. A ripple rode across the water, tearing Cam from her memories and reminding her that she was safe above the water.

  “Alright, Cam?” Her father asked. Cam nodded and they pressed on, past the swamp and through the deep forest, which was more difficult to navigate but freed them from the burden of making conversation. Cam allowed her mind to wander as they climbed over fallen logs and pushed through tangled thickets. She didn’t realize that they were heading towards the creek until they were almost upon it. She stopped immediately, pulling her father to a halt along with her.

  “What’s wrong?” He asked her, and Cam stared at him wordlessly for a moment, wondering if he had already forgotten, or if he were simply so unfamiliar with the forest that he didn’t realize they were just a few yards from the very creek that she had almost died in.

  “Papa,” Cam began tentatively, “Papa we’re almost at-”

  “The creek, I know,” he told her.

  “You know?” Cam couldn’t imagine what would make him bring her back here.

  “I want to see it,” he told her.

  “What?”

  “I want to see where it happened. Is the spot near here?”

  Cam was at a loss for words. “Not far,” she managed finally, and her mouth was dry as cotton. The swamp had been disturbing enough. She didn’t think that she could return to the spot, not now. Maybe not ever. “Papa, I don’t think-”

  “Camilla, be a good girl and humor your papa,” he said, and his tone was unyielding, “now we’re almost at the creek. Is it upstream or downstream from here?”

  Cam still couldn’t understand why he cared, but she didn’t want to ruin what had otherwise been an unusually pleasant afternoon with her father. Had it been anyone else, she would have gone home without a second thought, but her father was different. Much as she resented him, there was some small, strange part of her that still wanted to please him, to be close to him. “Downstream,” she said finally.

  “Take me there.”

  They walked for nearly twenty minutes before Cam suddenly stopped. She wasn’t sure whether it was the lingering bad conjure in the air, or just her own terrifying memories, but her heart was suddenly thumping fit to burst from her chest, so this had to be the spot. She didn’t want to look at the creek, didn’t want to see the water, but she couldn’t stop herself from turning to confirm that this was indeed the place.

  When she caught sight of the rock where she had placed her boots just before her ill-fated wade through the creek, Cam’s blood all but froze, and she took a few steps back. Her father, on the other hand, stepped forward. He moved right to the edge of the creek and surveyed the water silently.

  Cam let him examine it for a moment, hoping that he would finish and suggest that they turn back. When a few minutes passed and he didn’t say a word, she cleared her throat. “Papa?”

  He didn’t respond, didn’t even turn back to glance at her, but she could see him shake his head.

  “Is something wrong?” She asked him. The sound of the creek rushing through the forest was making her jumpy. She was so nervous that she could practically smell the same herbs that she had scented before the water had turned on her.

  “It’s very strange,” he said quietly, and his voice was so low that Cam had to take a step forward just to hear him properly. “It’s not even that high. Why,” he said, as he stepped into the creek, “It shouldn’t have even been above your knees.”

  “Papa, I should like to go home now,” Cam said. She wasn’t sure what to say to him. Aunt Beth wouldn’t have asked any questions, she never did, but their father was a different matter.

  “How did this happen?” Cam’s father asked her, gesturing to the water. “It doesn’t seem possible.”

  “I fell,” Cam said. “I fell into the water.”

  “It is very peculiar,” her father said. “Nothing seems to make sense on my property. My wife dies when the carriage house inexplicably bursts into flame. My daughter nearly drowns in a knee-high creek. Tell me what’s happening, Cam.”

  Cam’s blood had run cold at the mention of Solange. It had never occurred to her that her father might connect her drowning with her mother’s mysterious death, but it made sense that he had, as both were unexplained, senseless, and sudden.

  “What is happening at Cypress Hall, Cam, what am I missing?” He turned to her now, and Cam was alarmed by the expression on his face, altogether too hard and too suspicious. She wondered if this was why he had asked her on the walk in the first place, to question her.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Why did this happen?” He asked, pointing to the creek. “Why do these things always happen to us? What is it that I can’t see? I’ve tried to make sense of it, but there’s something that never quite falls into place. Cam—” he stepped toward her, reached out for her, and the wind blew past, rushing between them and making strands of Cam’s hair dance.

  “Papa, you’re frightening me,” Cam said. She couldn’t stop thinking about the last time that she had been at the creek, and between her own horrifying memories and the way her father was behaving, she was beginning to feel that she was in the midst of some sort of nightmare.

  “You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he told her. “Fear whatever is happening at Cypress Hall. Yes, fear that, but not me. There’s no reason for my quest
ions to make you feel uneasy.”

  The breeze blew again, colder than last time, whipping at the creek, and whatever part of Cam had taken over and made her compliant and obedient for her father crumbled. “Well you are making me feel uneasy,” she said sharply. “I nearly died at this creek not a week ago and you’ve brought me back. Why? If I’d known that we were coming here I would have stayed in my room. I want to go home now. If you’re not ready, I’ll return home alone. Goodbye,” she said quickly, and turned to go, hoping that her father would come back with her. This place made her nervous, it still felt so bad, so evil, and she didn’t want anything to happen to him there.

  There was a pause, and then Cam heard her father step out of the creek to follow her. “Very well Cammie,” he said finally, “let’s go home.” Cam sighed with relief, but she hated his tone, it was almost . . . defeated, as though he had surrendered to an opponent that he still couldn’t identify.

  They didn’t speak another word the whole walk home, and Cam’s father didn’t question her about the creek again, but Cam returned to her room in a worse state than she had left in. The coldness was back, the evil frost that had slid into her bones after she drowned. Cam slipped into her warmest dressing gown and decided to go to bed early. But the gown couldn’t protect her from a chill that rose from her soul, and sleep refused to come. She stood by the window for over an hour, rubbing her freezing hands together and staring out over the lawn, gazing at the spot where the carriage house had once stood. Suddenly it seemed preferable to be consumed by fire than to be devoured by the cold poison of conjure in her veins.

  How like Solange, to leave this world in flames. Cam remembered little of her mother, but she remembered her heat, the way she had held Cam close to her breast and rocked her to sleep when she was frightened. When Cam closed her eyes, she could still feel it. She could imagine her mother’s soft hand on her hair and her warm dress beneath Cam’s cheek.