Witch Wood: The Harvesting Series Book 4

by Karsak, Melanie

  Moving as quietly as I could, I opened the front door and slipped off my shoes in the foyer.

  “What am I supposed to do? The hospital is packed. They are sending people over from Grand Falls. The flu that’s got half the country knocked out is bad over there. Everyone who isn’t sick is working, not just me,” my mother replied. I realized then that she was in the shower. It was just like my stepdad to pick an argument when she couldn’t get away.

  “And how am I supposed to know that’s where you’re really going? You’ve been working late all week. You could be anywhere. With anyone.”

  “Turn on the news. This flu is out of hand. People have been throwing up on me all day. Stop being ridiculous.”

  I’d just turned the corner to slip into my bedroom when I heard my stepdad launch himself from the recliner and thunder down the hall toward the bathroom. In that moment, I was simultaneously glad and horrified to be caught unexpected in the middle of their fight. On the one hand, whatever might have happened next wouldn’t happen because I was there. On the other hand, I was there…and I knew that my stepdad never let my mom talk to him like that. For maybe the millionth time, I wondered why my mother put up with him. It wasn’t like he contributed anything to our family, and the charming man he’d been when he first swept her off her feet had vanished about four seconds after they’d gotten married. The sweet guy who’d brought me stuffed animals was replaced with a slug who’d practically glued himself to the recliner from which he spent his day shouting profanities at sports teams. I couldn’t even remember the last time he had a job.

  “When did you get here?” he said, jumping sideways when he almost ran into me. The smell of cheap beer and sweat emanated from him. “Amelia’s here,” he screamed to my mother.

  “Honey, I have to go back to the hospital. Are you headed to Witch Wood?”

  “Yeah, I’m just getting my things.”

  “Lasagna in the fridge if you want it. Mushroom.”

  “Thank you,” I called then stood in the hallway between Larry and the door to the bathroom. A nonverbal showdown, I simply stood and waited.

  “Working this weekend too, eh?” he said finally.

  “Yes.” I am…Mom is…what about you, you lazy piece of garbage?

  “You keeping your grades up?”

  “Yes.” Like you care.

  Realizing I wasn’t going to move, he grunted then turned and headed back to the kitchen for another beer.

  I slipped into my room and packed up my clothes, books, and laptop. I had everything I needed to escape the hellhole that was home. I slid off my long gypsy skirt and pulled on a pair of jeans, sweatshirt, and boots. From the back of my closet, I dug out my winter jacket. It smelled dusty, vaguely like the perfume I wore last winter, and…mint? I remembered then that I’d poured mouthwash on it last spring. I needed to send it for dry cleaning. Next week. I would need it at Witch Wood over the weekend. Madame Knightly rarely heated the upper floors of the massive old estate. Since she couldn’t easily get upstairs anymore, there wasn’t any use. She’d taken to living entirely on the first floor of the old mansion. More and more, I worried about leaving her when I went off to college the following year…her and my mom.

  I shoved my heavy coat into my backpack, then grabbed my witch’s bag. The bag, which contained my oils, herbs, and magical tools, came in handy at Witch Wood. There were always wild herbs to be cut. Last weekend I’d found a bunch of lavender growing wild in what must have been the kitchen herb garden—once upon a time. I’d pressed it into a nice oil. All packed up, I headed toward the back of the house.

  “Mom?” I called.

  “Here,” she said then clicked on the hairdryer.

  I opened the bathroom door slowly. “You decent?”

  “As I’m gonna get,” she replied.

  The steam in the bathroom was so thick I could barely breathe. Mom was wrapped in a massive beach towel, blow drying the water from her thick, brown hair.

  “Headed out now?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  Mom clicked off the dyer and set it on the pink porcelain counter. Larry hated our 1950s bathroom with its pink sink and tub and black and white tiles, but Mom and I loved its faded charm.

  “Ugh…I have a migraine. Will you do the thing before you go? Pretty please? For me?” she asked, batting her lashes and giving me her sweetest puppy eyes.

  “Sure,” I replied.

  Mom sat down sideways on the toilet, and I sat on the side of the tub behind her.

  “I took four pain killers but nothing is touching this headache.”

  “You shouldn’t go back to work if you feel sick.”

  “I just need a cigarette,” she whispered. Mom never smoked with Larry around. Despite all his vices, he hated smoking. He and Mom never agreed on the issue so Mom took to smoking in secret. Larry always lost his temper when he caught her. I shuddered to think of the time I found her crying in a rumpled heap in the corner of their bedroom. I hadn’t seen the fight, but I’d seen the aftermath. Mom never talked about what happened, but I’d noticed her shirt was ripped, her cheek red, and her pack of cigarettes shredded in a messy heap on their bed. The irony was, Mom hadn’t smoked until Larry came into the picture.

  “Okay, try to be still and quiet,” I told her.

  I inhaled deeply and focused, squinting my eyes so I could see the halo of color around her more closely. Usually her aura was a mix of pastel blues, pinks, and purples. Today, however, black energy circled her head.

  “It is a bad one,” I said.

  “Told you.”

  Rubbing my hands together, I felt my own energy grow. My hands were covered in bright white light. Focusing, I penetrated my hands into her aura and began pulling away the dark strings of energy.

  Uncontrollably, she whimpered.

  I worked and worked, releasing the darkness that surrounded her back into the air, banishing it from us. But it made for hard work. The blackness was sticky, like it didn’t want to let go. It kept trying to reattach itself to her over and over again. Weird. Focusing hard, I finally pulled all the bad energy away. It lifted through the ceiling and dissipated. After about ten minutes or so, long enough for the steam to disappear, I’d cleaned off the last of the darkness.

  I pulled my hands back then rose. “Feel better?” I asked her.

  Mom opened her eyes. “You sure you’re my daughter? I’ve never understood how you do that.”

  “Sure you do. You do the same thing, you just don’t realize it. Healing touch, remember? Why do you think everyone tells you that you’re the best nurse at the hospital?” I replied then went to the sink and washed my hands, imagining any lingering darkness washing away.

  “Because I take all the extra shifts, cover them when they need time off, bake cookies, you know, that stuff?” my mom replied with a laugh, then wrapped her arms around me. “Love you, baby girl. Thank you.”

  “Love you too,” I said, lifting her hands and kissing them one after the other.

  “What in the hell are you two doing in there?” Larry shouted from the living room.

  Mom rolled her eyes. “Amelia got her period,” she yelled back.

  We giggled quietly.

  I heard Larry mutter, but he didn’t ask anything else.

  “See you Tuesday night, right?” Mom asked, pushing a strand of hair away from my face.

  I nodded.

  “Okay then,” she said then turned back to the mirror.

  I looked at her again. Her aura…it still looked strange. Dark colors zipped all around her usually placid, pastel-colored glow. “So many people are getting sick. Be careful, okay?”

  Mom shrugged then started pulling a brush through her long hair. “I’ll be all right. I’ve had the flu shot and a shot for just about everything else under the moon. Wait, did you go to Doctor Darling’s for your flu shot? I didn’t see an invoice come from the insurance company.”

  “And that’s my cue to leave,” I said with a grin as I
opened the bathroom door.

  “Amelia!”

  “I have my echinacea, and vegetarians never get sick.”

  “Seriously. You didn’t get it?

  “No, and I won’t need it. You know I’m right. I never get sick. Clean living, Mom. Try it some time.”

  “And give up my Whoppers? Never.”

  I rolled my eyes. “That’s not even meat. Do you know that they put—“

  Raising her hand, she silenced me. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

  “No, you don’t.

  “Have a good weekend, honey. And thank you again,” she said, motioning to her head. “Love you.”

  “Love you too.” I waved to her then headed back out. Pulling on my backpack, I headed toward the front door. Larry had gone back to sitting in the living room watching a rerun of America’s Funniest Home Videos.

  “And just who is going to take care of me? Everyone around here will be busy wiping old people’s asses this weekend. I guess I’m just supposed to sit here by myself,” Larry half-heartedly grumbled at me, but he got distracted when a little boy on the TV shot a mile-long booger out of his nose. He laughed loudly.

  I rolled my eyes then headed out the front door only to half-trip over my neighbor, Mrs. Sommers, who was standing on the porch.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. You scared me half to death,” Mrs. Sommers exclaimed. “Of course, I‘m standing on your porch.” She laughed loudly.

  “Sorry,” I replied. “I was just heading out. Can I help you with something?”

  “I was wondering if Larry was home? Bill’s been laid up with the flu the past two days, and I can’t get the furnace lit. They say it might freeze tonight.”

  “Larry?” I called back into the house.

  “What? I thought you left,” my stepdad grumbled in reply.

  “Mrs. Sommers is on the porch. She’s looking for you.”

  I heard him grunt as he lowered the leg rest on the recliner, complaining bitterly under his breath about “that annoying old bag” as he made his way to the door. I said a silent prayer that Mrs. Sommers hadn’t heard him. Not wanting to be there a moment longer, I stepped around Mrs. Sommers and headed down the stairs.

  “Mrs. Sommers! Let me guess, you made me some seven-layer cookies?”

  My neighbor, who, as far as I could remember, had lived beside me all my life, laughed uncomfortably. I had some vague memory of her and her husband attending one of my dad’s birthday parties. I could almost envision Dad on the front porch grilling while Mrs. Sommers chatted with him over a massive bowl of potato salad. Was it real or my imagination? After all, I was only five when my dad went off to Afghanistan and never came back. I hardly remembered him anymore.

  “Well, actually…” she began, but I headed out of earshot. I didn’t want to mess up my memory by inserting Larry into the picture any more than I had already.

  My bike, which sat parked under the old oak tree in the front yard, was covered in orange- and gold-colored leaves. The crisp fall air was perfumed with their decaying scent.

  I paused and set my hand on the tree. The bark under my hand felt gritty.

  “Oak spirit, I honor your transformation. Thank you for your life-giving breath, your acorns, and the strength of your roots. Sacred oak, watcher of the woods, keep my home safe. So mote it be. In thanks, I pray thee.”

  I felt a strange tingling sensation. My whole hand felt like it was buzzing with electricity. And with my mind’s eye, I could see the glow of amber-colored light pulsating from the old oak, touching the violet-colored aura that emanated from me. I felt our energies touch and warm energy—like the sensation you get when you’re shocked by static fresh from the dryer—passed between us.

  I pulled my hand away then guided my bike to the road. Usually the traffic was busy at this time of day. Where was everyone? I peddled down Maple Lane and onto Fifth Street. A lone truck swerved around me, the driver shouting something incomprehensible out the window. Drivers always seemed to have some odd contempt for bicyclists, like we reminded them that they should be biking or walking or doing something other than polluting the earth with exhaust fumes. Or, at least, that’s what I told myself. I had enough money for a car, I just didn’t want to spend it. I needed that cash for the great escape from the no man’s land Brighton had become. One day, I’d be far away from here, living the life of my dreams. I couldn’t wait for that day to come.

  Chapter 3

  It took me almost an hour to bike from my house to Witch Wood Estate which was located on the outskirts of town. While rumors abounded about the name of the old estate, Madame Knightly always insisted it was named Witch Wood because of the rowan trees growing on the property. The trees, which lined the wall surrounding the estate, were called by the common name of witch wood. There were whispers, however, that the original Knightly family had moved from Ireland to America to escape religious persecution for their pagan practices. Madame Knightly would just laugh whenever I mentioned it, calling it nonsense. In my heart, I knew Madame Knightly was either not telling the truth or didn’t know the truth. There were engravings all around the house that were pagan in origin: ancient Celtic knot work, ogham marks, runes, and symbols for the Father God and Mother Goddess. As well, the statuary that dotted the property depicted old gods. Medicinal and magical herbs grew in every garden. Maybe Madame Knightly didn’t know the significance of all the magical things that surrounded her, but I did. And even greater proof of its magical nature was the fact that Witch Wood had a strong aura.

  Auras. I’d grown up thinking everyone could see the energy that surrounds all things. It wasn’t until the third grade, however, that I learned how wrong my assumption was.

  “Amelia, why do you always draw colors around people?” Mrs. Haphousen, my third grade art teacher, had asked.

  Her question confused me. “Because there are colors around people.”

  “No, there aren’t.”

  “Sure there are. You have a little halo of orange all around you. And I think you must be sick, because your tummy looks yellow and pink.”

  Mrs. Haphousen gave me a long, hard look. “Maybe you see those colors, maybe you don’t, but other people definitely do not see them. It’s the radiance of the Lord you see. It’s a special gift to be able to see the Lord’s divine light, Amelia.”

  A few weeks later, Mrs. Haphousen went away on leave. I remember that someone told me later that she was at home taking care of a brand new baby girl. Her replacement teacher, Mister Foote, gave me check-minuses on all my pictures and told me to stop drawing “rainbows” around people. After that, I never colored an aura again.

  But I’d never stopped seeing auras. Over the years I tried to help people, to use magical aura healing to clear away the darkness of illness I saw around them. I was actually getting good at it. People always had auras. Places and things often had a glow, but many times it wasn’t as vibrant. Witch Wood, however, had a vibe all its own, as big and bright as a living person’s. It changed with the seasons, matching the feel of each time of year. And then there was the light and vibration surrounding the gate. The massive old wrought iron gate glowed brightly and had a vibration moving almost beyond perception. There was no doubt in my mind that the gate was enchanted. But why? And by whom?

  I stopped just outside the gate where a massive old oak tree grew.

  “Grandfather,” I said, bowing to the tree. It was, by far, the largest oak in the forest. It was so wide that it would take four people to wrap their arms around it. The energy coming off the tree was strong. In my studies, I had learned that oak trees were considered sacred to the ancient druids. Linked in myth to the ancient Celtic gods, the oak was the most revered tree in the forest.

  I hopped off my bike and pushed it up the small lane to the gate. The fence surrounding Witch Wood was made of stone. The gate itself, however, was beautiful wrought iron. The iron had been formed to look like swirling rose vines. The letter W trimmed both gates. I dropped the kicks
tand on my bike and went to investigate the gate handle. The vibration seemed worse today. I tried twice to catch the handle. It was only on the third attempt that I was able to grab it. It had been moving faster than I could shake from my vision. Weird. Maybe I needed glasses. Or, maybe that borderline anemia was finally catching up with me. Or, maybe…what was the spell on the gate?

  I pushed down the handle then opened the gate. It groaned in protest. I went back to retrieve my bike then swung the gate closed again, locking it from the inside. I noticed, as usual, that from the inside the gate looked normal. I loved Witch Wood. What an odd place…the perfect place for me. I pushed my bike up the driveway toward the massive building.

  Witch Wood looked like a traditional English manor home. It was built with gray colored stones taken from the farmland all around Brighton. The tall chimneys, nine in all, were visible above the tree line. The building was six stories in height, and big enough to house more than a hundred people. The faded photos—and the paintings that had come from Ireland before photography—hanging all around the house, showed the Knightly family had been a big one.

  The long driveway, which circled upon itself and back out again, led me to the front door. At the center of the drive was a massive fountain shaped like a rowan tree. Water dripped from its long, metal limbs. Discolored over time, the tree had now faded to the same green hue as the Statue of Liberty. There were more fountains on the property, but many no longer worked or had become overgrown by the untended gardens. I loved the wildness of the grounds. You never knew when you’d run across a statue hiding among the vines. There was a Green Man statue, a harvest goddess, a warrior woman with two dogs, an ancient-looking full-breasted Mother Goddess, and a replica of the Aphrodite of Knidos—that one was my favorite. There was even a hedge maze, not that I’d ever had the chance to try it out.

  “Don’t go into the maze,” Madame Knightly would always warn me whenever I went outside to fetch something. The serious tone in her otherwise light and cordial voice always set me on edge.

  “Why not?”

  “Oh,” she would say, trying to lighten the mood, “there’s a trick to it. It’s not a regular maze. Finding your way back without help is next to impossible. I’m too old to come fetch you, Amelia. And I might be lost myself in trying. Be a good girl and listen to my words. Stay out.”