The inside of the house is very welcoming— candles burn through the house. A giant wooden pentacle demands the attention in the cheerful hallway, and there are many family pictures on the wall—happy memories. A horseshoe above the door for luck, a broom parked next to the door, spring flowers in a vase, and lots of witchy trinkets. Noises come from the kitchen; somebody is awake. For a moment Tara hesitates, but instead of going in, she quietly moves upstairs into her bedroom.
A fireplace with stucco hearth dominates her traditional, spacious, high ceilinged bedroom. The playful images of angels, the sun, the moon, stars, flowers, and birds are impossible to ignore. The walls are full of bookcases with books about herbal healing, witchcraft, symbolism, New Orleans, and old traditions. An altar with witch necessities faces north. Above the altar hangs a painting of Seamus, Tara’s deceased husband, a mischievous old man. His witch cape swirls around him. He stands in a clearing in a forest next to a giant ancient stone. When Tara enters, his image starts to move and he seems to grow in the frame. He smiles at her. Tara cheers up. ‘Hi darling.’ Seamus blows her a kiss. The magical painting has been a great comfort after Seamus’ passing. It’s like a window into the afterlife. They’re able to see each other, but not speak.
She sits down at a little desk and opens a drawer. It’s full of small drawstring bags, in all colors and fabrics. She lets her hand hover above the bags; she hesitates and then grabs a bag, opens it, and gets out a tarot deck. She smiles at Seamus. ‘Let’s see what this week will bring.’ She shuffles and fans out the cards in front of her. Her hand travels up and down above it before she settles on one. She slips it out and turns it around. ‘The Ace of Swords’ A sword hovers upright in a blue sky with wispy clouds, while two storks are flying by. Seamus frowns.
‘A beginning, I need to make a decision. I know…I left it too long. But whom should I choose? You know the girls. None of them seem right. I don’t want to make the mistake mother made with… her.’ Seamus’ frown turns to worry. ‘I’ll figure it out. The card is a good sign, a time to decide. The sword is double edged, so whomever I chose it will have some unpleasant consequences.’ She ponders the card for a minute before she places it on her altar.
A knock on the door pulls her out of her thoughts, she walks over and opens the door. Maeve, her granddaughter, a siren beauty in her mid-twenties, can’t hide her impatience as she notices her grandmother is still in her gown. It makes Tara smile. Maeve is always trying to please everybody. Getting her grandmother to work on time is not an easy task, and she battles with it daily. Tara is happy to have her around; she’s the only family living with her in the house. ‘I’ll be ready in a couple of minutes.’
‘Gram, you know how Ron is when customers have to wait. You better hurry.’
BOSTON
An alarm goes off. A hand frees itself from under a blanket and reaches for an iPhone. It’s hard to see humans in the bed. It’s a big doggy pile of all sorts of breeds snuggled up. ‘Come on guys move,’ Bridget Madigan manages to sit up. She is an unpolished version of her twin, Maeve—not identical twins, but unmistakably sisters. A little Chihuahua jumps up and starts to lick her face. ‘Thanks Kiki, that’s not necessary.’ A moan comes from under the blankets, and another human form surfaces, Bridget’s boyfriend, Wes. She’s still amazed that he’s hers. How did she get so lucky? She stares as first his black curls pop up above the blanket, followed by two big hazel eyes. He’s an aristocrat in a bad boy package, only a few years older than she is. They met at an opening of an exhibition of a local painter. His humor and insights attracted her, and they immediately hit it off. When you know, you know. So, it’s only a couple of months later and he’s moving in.
‘Coffee?’ He always seems to know what she wants.
‘That would be perfect.’ She gives him a thorough kiss. The dogs are awake now and mill around. Bridget extracts herself from the cozy bed and tries to find her clothes. The bedroom is a mess. Clothes everywhere and boxes half-opened. She manages to find a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and disappears into the bathroom.
Bridget wanders into the kitchen followed by a train of dogs. She clips on her gun, her police badge, and transforms into a bad ass. The dogs impatiently try to herd her towards the kitchen counter. But she has only eyes for Wes, who’s making a cup of coffee, in just his sweats. He looks downright delicious.
‘Here.’ He hands her a coffee. ‘Stop ogling me, you don’t have time for that.’ She laughs and starts to pick up the dog bowls. ‘You’ll be okay unpacking by yourself? I feel bad leaving you… with all this.’
‘No you don’t! Hell, I wouldn’t feel bad leaving you to clean up.’
Bridget laughs, she never thought she would enjoy sharing her house with someone, but Wes changed her mind. ‘If you need to make room, don’t hesitate to chuck my stuff aside.’
‘I’ll be fine. As long as you’re sure I can take over the spare bedroom. It will be messy. I’m far from organized when I paint.’
‘I love the smell of paint. My grandfather was an artist.’
‘Really?!’ Wes is surprised; Bridget didn’t usually mention her family. ‘Don’t you think it’s time for me to meet your family? Now we’re living together and all.’
Bridget face closes down in a millisecond. ‘I told you I’m not in touch with my family. They’re… different.’ She quickly fills the dog bowls. Some start to drool in anticipation. ‘Sit.’ The dogs sit, and she puts down the bowls in front of them. ‘Go ahead.’ The dogs attack their food. Wes doesn’t give up though. ‘What are you afraid of? That they won’t like me? Which, of course, is highly unlikely. Or that I won’t like them?’
‘I don’t want to see my mother. She’s very controlling.’
‘Everybody’s mother is controlling!’
‘Not like her!’ Bridget stares off into the distance, thinking back in time.
Several years earlier in a homey witch kitchen Bridget argues with her mother, Luna Madigan. It’s clear where the girls got their good looks from. Luna emanates power and confidence; she is someone used to getting her way. Bridget can still smell the herbs that were drying in the kitchen that night. It draws her even further into the memory. Her mother becomes rapidly irritated while she argues with Bridget. Maeve tries to mediate without much success. The girls are sixteen and not easily satisfied.
‘Why can’t I go?’ Demands Bridget.
‘I’m your mother and I say so. Besides you have to do the dishes.’
Carelessly Bridget waves her hand and mumbles a quick spell. The dishes start to wash themselves. ‘There. Done.’
‘You’re not going. End of story.’
‘We’re like prisoners, never allowed to do anything with anybody.’
‘We are different.’
‘So what?! I’m not doing anything to stand out. I know the rules. I’m not a child anymore. You should trust me.’
‘Trust you? You’re acting like a little kid having a tantrum. Maybe you should go to bed instead.’
Bridget decides to change tactics. ‘Please Mom. This once.’
But Luna doesn’t budge. ‘No.’
Maeve tries to distract her sister. ‘Come B, we can catch a movie or something.’
‘I’m going to that concert with Josh. You can’t stop me!’ Bridget turns and strides towards the door. Luna starts to get angry. ‘You’re not going.’
‘Watch me.’ Bridget grabs the door handle when Luna’s commanding voice resonates in the kitchen ‘STOP’. Bridget freezes in place with the door half open. She’s unable to move, panic overtakes her. She tries desperately to move, but nothing, not even her face muscles, are her own anymore. Her eyes shoot daggers at her mother. Maeve realizes something is very wrong. As a witch you should never use your powers on another witch. Never. ‘Mom?! What are you doing?’
It doesn’t stop Luna. ‘GO TO YOUR ROOM AND GO TO SLEEP’
With all her might Bridget tries to resist, but her body betrays her. It moves out of the kitchen and up to her room. Tears of frustration start to stream down her face but she’s unable to stop herself. She never dreamed that her mother would do such a thing to her—betray her like this. Luna is powerful, but Bridget never realized that her mother had such a dark gift. Bridget goes through all the spells she knows in her head but still; she goes into her room, undresses herself, gets into bed, and promptly falls asleep.
In the present, Wes frantically waves his hand in front of Bridget’s face. ‘Hello. HELLO. Earth to Bridget.’ The dogs bark and Bridget snaps out of her trance.
‘Are you okay?’ Wes, full of concern, puts his hand on her shoulder.
Bridget shudders from the strong memory of a night she had tried so hard to forget. She had left that life behind, nothing to concern Wes with. ‘Yes. Yes, I’m fine.’
By the look on Bridget’s face there is a whole lot more to this story. However, he knows her long enough that this is not the time to push for answers. Wes wisely says, ‘I get it—don’t mention the family.’
‘I would appreciate that.’ They finish their coffee in silence. Bridget says goodbye to each dog and finally turns to Wes. ‘You’re sure?’ Wes nods. ‘Well, good luck then with this mess.’ And she heads out. Thoughtfully Wes stares after her.
Bridget jogs up the steps into the police station. Her friend Carla is manning the front desk. ‘Any messages?’
‘None.’ Carla glances at the clock. ‘You’re late.’
‘Wes… what can I say.’ Bridget and Carla laugh at the same time. Bridget gets in the elevator to the 3rd floor. When she steps out she immediately spots Tom Walsh, her partner, always reliable like an older brother. In his fifties, he’s a ‘been there, done that’ cop. It didn’t make him more patient though, he bellows ‘Madigan, you’re late!’
‘Yes. Yes. Wes is moving in and…’
‘I don’t want to hear your stories. We gotta suit up. We got a lead on Sanchez, and we have to meet SWAT in half an hour for the briefing.’
NEW ORLEANS
Tara and Maeve weave their way through the crowds on the street in the French Quarter. The humidity and heat weigh heavily, but it doesn’t hinder the millions of people every year from visiting this mysterious city. Who doesn’t want to visit a Voodoo priest or bump into a Vampire at night? Everything is possible in New Orleans. And if that’s not your thing, there’s music and bars, 24 hours a day at your disposal. The Madigans have been calling it home for hundreds of years now and it’s the ultimate city to blend into. They can hide in plain sight and make some money with their gifts without raising any questions or being judged.
They finally reach Under the Witches Hat, which is your not-so-average bar. A big black pointy hat hangs above the door and two wooden dragons twist and turn and form an otherworldly doorway. Easy New Age music drifts outside. The eclectic witchy storefront is dominated by signs: ‘EVERYTHING FROM TEAS, ELIXIRS, POTIONS AND COCKTAILS’, ‘TAROT READINGS, ASTROLOGY, DIVINATIONS’. They disappear inside.
A soft, slightly tinted light, which illuminates the bar, comes from round orbs that float around. Slowly they change color, blue to orange to yellow to white, very peaceful. The walls are decorated with witchy images—witches flying on brooms, witches around a cauldron, you name it—it is stereotypes galore. There is already a nice morning crowd. Almost every table is filled. On the corner of the bar stands an enormous crystal ball; the sign next to it invites you to gaze into it. Tara and Maeve move by the bar. The bartender, Ron Madigan, in his early forties, is Tara’s only son. She’s always struck by how much he resembles his father. Although he’s as charismatic as his dad, he is far more serious and there’s no joking about him running the shop. He’s dressed in black and looks very mysterious. With an easy charm he chats up two older ladies at the bar. They stare at him in admiration, while he fixes some cocktails. He finishes one very pink cocktail and sticks in a little umbrella. He touches it lightly with his finger and it starts to spin. The lady is delighted and takes a sip. Ron glances at Tara and Maeve and points at the clock. Tara ignores it and Maeve blows him a kiss; two very red lips that flutter through the air and land with a loud smack on Ron’s cheek. The ladies can’t believe what just happened and burst out laughing. Ron rubs off the lipstick and wants to say something but Tara and Maeve are already in the back room.
The back room is surprisingly big—as in many New Orleans houses in the French Quarter, the front doesn’t always match the rest of the house. On the right wall there are smallish private areas, separated by bright curtains to create privacy. They’re infused with quiet spells so people don’t have to worry that their neighbor will hear their fortunes being told. On the left hand side, the wall is covered with shelves full of witch paraphernalia, all you need to make potions, spells, and whatever else your heart desires. Diana Madigan floats around the room. Tara’s third daughter has never fitted in. Her otherworldly features make her stand out and scream ‘witch,’ even if you don’t believe in such things. Her faraway look is turned inside, very Zen, or some might call it creepy.
Luna is bent over a cauldron and is focused on her spell. The years have been kind to her. Her confidence is touching on arrogance these days and it makes that she takes up a lot of space. Or as the witches like to say—her aura is spreading wide. Luna adds three last drops from a tiny bottle and twirls her finger to stir the potion.
Diana notices Tara and Maeve and plops back on the floor. ‘You’re here.’ She gives them both a kiss on the cheek. She turns to Luna. ‘How long?’
‘Leave it for an hour, give it a good stir, add the last of the hazel flakes, and it should be done after another hour.’
‘You’re the best, I owe you one.’
Only now does Luna acknowledge Maeve and she gives her a quick kiss on the cheek. Her mother however gets a formal ‘Mom.’ Tara in stark contrast radiates warmth. ‘It’s good to see you dear.’
‘I’d better hurry before Ron spots me and puts me to work.’ Luna hurries out the backdoor.
Tara turns her attention to Diana. ‘Any news?’
‘You know, nobody ever tells me anything.’ Diana smells Luna’s potion to avoid looking at her mother.
‘That’s not what I mean.’
Diana feels Tara’s eyes on her. Her special gift is foresight, as the future is ever changing she learned from a young age to try to change it is a bad idea. Generally, they don’t ask her and she sure as hell doesn’t share anything she sees. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘It might be important. Even we can feel a storm brewing. You must see something.’
‘What do you want to hear?! That I can see the end of the world? That I see my family getting hurt? It’s always changing. It’s too much. It’s not helpful to anybody, so stop bugging me. Do your own divination if you really want to know.’ Diana storms out of the backdoor. Maeve wants to follow her, but Tara grabs her arm. ‘Give her some space. She has a difficult gift. It’s hard to imagine what it is like to always have your world flooded with images of the ever-changing future and trying to make sense of it.’
‘Why did you pressure her then?’
‘Because she is a great seer, and you must feel it too: there’s something coming.’
Ron walks in with two clients and abruptly the conversation ends.
Tara disappears with a young woman behind one curtain, and Maeve takes her friend to the small private area.
A couple of hours later Maeve and Diana are chatting when Tara opens her curtain and an older man pushes past them to hurry out the backdoor. Diana looks at her mother. ‘You scared that poor man.’
‘I would never do that.’ Says Tara with a twinkle in her eye. They all laugh. ‘He’ll be back, don’t worry.’
‘Gram, we’re heading out for lunch. Are you coming?’
Tara
has other plans. ‘Just bring me something small, I’ll take a nap.’ Using her old age as an excuse.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Stop worrying. Go!’
The girls leave and Tara goes back to her little cocoon behind the curtain. It’s cozy with a round table and two chairs. Along the wall is a small altar; two candles are lit, and a little bunch of daffodils represent the first sign of spring. On the wall are pictures of fortunetellers, some good luck charms and a witch’s broom. Tara sits down and lets out a big sigh. For a minute she savors the solitude. She closes her eyes and gently breathes in and out. Slowly she gets her purse and pulls out a small bag, opens it and pulls out a tarot deck. It looks different; it only has 22 cards, and when she leafs through it we recognize Luna, Bridget, Maeve, Seamus, Diana, Ron, and Tara herself. On the rest of the cards are the remaining members of the family. Some are still young children. The images are so real. Tara stops at several images and smiles fondly at them. Finally, she pulls Seamus’ card. ‘Okay Seamus, time to put your deck to good use.’ She gives the card a quick kiss. The image of Seamus on the card comes to life and even becomes slightly three dimensional. Seamus’ face turns towards Tara and kisses her back. Tara giggles and Seamus has a mischievous grin. She puts her hand quickly over it and puts him back in the deck. Another deep breath and she fans the cards out face down in front of her. She gets up and grabs four candles from the shelf and puts them in the four wind directions, snaps her fingers and the candles flare to life. She lights an incense stick on her altar and picks up the small dagger. Satisfied, she positions herself in front of the cards. ‘Elemental powers, I ask for your help to show me the one who will be fit to carry our family burden. To honor you and guide the family in these changing times.’ She unsheathes the dagger. ‘Open my eyes, open my heart, and guide my hand.’ Carefully she makes a tiny prick in her forefinger. A drop of blood wells up, and she slowly moves her hand above the cards from left to right. She turns her finger, closes her eyes and while she moves her hand back and forth the small drop of blood falls down and lands on one of the cards. Tara opens her eyes, pulls the card out and turns it around.
The Dagger Page 2