Resurrection

by Nancy Holder

  She pulled out of a drawer a plain five-by-seven notebook she had bought in the village grocery store, and flipped open to a new page, which she dated August 1. She grabbed up an equally nondescript pen and held it over the paper, waiting for images to materialize and rise from the gossamer threads. First came the blurry faces of Tommy and the others, as she had expected; she always dreamed about them. Next a few random memories of the day—sweeping a floor, making a grilled cheese sandwich, and playing with Owen.

  And at last, fillips of nonsensical images that she prayed held the keys to her nightmares, and the house:

  a lily—symbol of the three Ladies of the Lily—she, Nicole, and Holly

  a hulking black demon with fangs of burning embers and black reptilian eyes—Sir William? His dead son, James?

  a crystal key—hmm, white magic? A revelation?

  a rabbit—fertility. Owen?

  And then there was nothing more. She waited, surprised. Dozens, sometimes hundreds, of images rose from the dream catcher. Since implementing the ritual, she had never listed fewer than thirty-nine—a magical number, as it was thirteen times three. Four was…wrong.

  She recited the incantation again.

  The water in the pot bubbled and spat, hissing like a cat. She moved back slightly to avoid being scalded. Steam clouded her vision for an instant, and then image after image rose from the pot, swirling and changing into other images. Hastily she scribbled them down: “a blue eye; a sweet smile; Owen’s face; a holly branch; water (an ocean? lake?) a pyramid; a yellow flower; a blue robe with gold; a ravine; a bus driving past a castle; more flowers; shadows; trees; sunlight…”

  About a minute later the water had boiled away, and she had filled three pages. As her tea steeped, she murmured incantations over the dream catcher, cleansing it of the previous night’s bounty and preparing it to snare the coming night’s new dreams. Then she prayed to the Goddess in her incarnation as Athena for insight into the meaning of the images. Many witches insisted that every dream held secret codes and messages from the unconscious, designed to instruct and protect.

  When Holly had ruled the coven, she had instructed them to stay away from dreamwork. They’d had enough going on in their waking lives to keep them busy, and she’d felt that their enemies might try to attack them magically through their dreams and nightmares. But Holly wasn’t there.

  We have no idea where she is either.

  Amanda’s father had suggested they stay off one another’s radar unless there was an urgent need to communicate. The fewer people who knew where they were, the better.

  But what about Philippe?

  She sighed and went to the refrigerator to start breakfast. Amanda, always the good, quiet sister and covenate, the one who made breakfast and cleaned up afterward. Amanda, who only recently had learned to voice her opinions and stand up—shakily—for what she believed in.

  Amanda.

  She cocked her head. Had someone called her name? She listened, then shrugged and opened the fridge. Eggs, milk, and bread. She’d make French toast. Nicole loved it, and of course she was breast-feeding Owen, so she needed a lot of calories. He was voracious.

  She carried the ingredients to the counter and turned to get out a mixing bowl. She walked past a double stainless steel sink abutting a ceramic splash guard of green and red falcons, and above that was a mahogany cabinet where she kept some dried herbs and some pacifiers for Owen. For a split second the faint image of a

  door

  whispered

  across her peripheral vision.

  She frowned and looked around, then studied the sinks, the tiles, the cabinets. Holding the egg carton against her chest, she said aloud, “Did I just see something?”

  There was no answer. There was nothing out of place. A sense of soothing calm washed over her, and she gave her head a little shake. Everything was fine. They were safe.

  She began breakfast.

  Seattle, 1971: Daniel and Marie-Claire Cathers

  “You’re in a black mood,” Marie-Claire said, pouting.

  Daniel Cathers sighed as he turned to look at his sister. She wore a long black dress with a halter style top. Silver bracelets shimmered on her tiny wrists. She had draped herself across the living room couch, and the contrast with its stark white was stunning.

  “You’ll ruin my party,” she went on.

  “Must everything always be about you?” he snapped.

  “Yes,” she said with a shrug of her pale shoulders.

  Marie-Claire had always been vain and selfish. He had come to terms with that years before. She was beautiful, and she had used it as an excuse not to have to be anything else.

  He turned, determined not to argue with her. He knew from experience it would gain him nothing. She rose fluidly and placed a hand on his arm. When he turned back, he was surprised to see her brow furrowed. She was nervous.

  “It’s just, Richard is coming tonight and I want everything to be perfect,” she said.

  Daniel smiled. “Ah, the man of the hour,” he mocked.

  She flushed. “Don’t call him that,” she snapped.

  He couldn’t stop himself from needling her. After all, she was his sister. Fair game. “Yes, I’m sorry, you’ve been actually going out with him for more than two weeks.”

  “For your information we’ve been dating for three months,” she said, her eyes flashing angrily.

  Something in their depths stopped him. “You’re serious about him, aren’t you?”

  She nodded, eyes wide.

  “He’s crazy, a troublemaker, not exactly what I’d call husband material.”

  “I see things differently.”

  “And what about him?”

  “He already asked me to marry him.”

  “Oh, now I see! And you haven’t told Mom yet. This ought to be good,” Daniel said, with a lazy, lopsided grin. In his mind he could already hear the earful Marie-Claire had waiting for her.

  “I plan to tell her tonight,” she informed him.

  Daniel sighed. “You know, he’s probably going to get drafted any day now.”

  Marie-Claire raised her chin. “So?”

  “So, what if he doesn’t come back?”

  “He’ll come back.” She didn’t look as sure as she sounded. Her little bracelets jingled as she folded her arms across her chest.

  “What if you don’t want him when he does? I mean, even if you managed to wait for him, he could come back from Vietnam with pieces missing.”

  She slapped him. Despite the sting—or perhaps because of it—his respect for her increased. Maybe she was growing up after all. Still he had a problem seeing his sister as a wife. He gave her a thin smile and left the room.

  He climbed the stairs to his bedroom, locked the door, and sat down at his desk. He opened his drawer, reached underneath the tray that held pens and paper clips, and extracted what he was looking for. It was an ancient manuscript, bound in skin. He unwrapped the black silk cloth that protected it. The cloth itself was beautifully embroidered in a silver thread with a hawk and lilies.

  With a shudder he opened the book and continued reading where he had left off. The manuscript was in old French. Daniel had a gift with languages. He had been able to read and write in French since he was six. Even though this was an ancient version, he found he had no trouble reading it and understanding its meaning.

  That was how, earlier that day, he had discovered that he was a witch.

  If he was being honest with himself, he had to admit that it hadn’t come as a complete surprise. There had always been something different about his family. They all seemed to possess the ability to sense things before they happened, and he had had more than one dream that had come true. When his father had died a couple of years before, his mother—who had always been the strong, overbearing parent—had only become worse. She had also taken to muttering a lot and seemed to spend endless hours alone in the attic. He had surprised her up there one day, and she had hastily shoved so
mething into an old trunk before yelling at him to get out.

  That “something” was the book he now perused. The whole thing read like some twisted fairy tale. Only instead of one evil witch, there was a whole family. Their name was Deveraux, and according to the book they were warlocks instead of witches, but he had yet to figure out exactly what the distinction was.

  A scratching sound outside his door made him jump. He twisted in his chair but saw only his closed door. Whatever had made the noise seemed to stop. Cautiously he turned back to the book, and a moment later he heard running footsteps in the hall.

  “Very funny, Marie!” he shouted.

  The scratching sound came again, and he stood up and threw the door open. The hall was empty. The hairs on the back of his neck raised and he broke out into a cold sweat. “Damn book is getting to me,” he muttered before closing the door.

  Suddenly his room shook violently, throwing him to the ground, and insane laughter filled the air. Sudden, overwhelming pain seized the bones of his rib cage. He rolled over onto his back and pressed his hands against his sides. He looked up, and a small white face swam before his eyes.

  “Marie?”

  “Not Marie, not Marie. Only me, only me,” something answered in a singsong voice.

  His vision cleared just in time to see a small green scaly creature about a foot tall, with pointed eyes and a large sharp nose, hop on spindly legs onto his chair and with skeletal fingers slammed the book closed. It wore no clothes, and its pointed head was bald.

  Then it scampered off the chair and scooted under his bed.

  Daniel struggled to a sitting position, grunting in pain. He searched wildly around for a weapon, but there was nothing.

  “Who are you?” he asked, speaking to the air as he scanned the room.

  “Cacoph. My name, my name, oh, Daniel of the Cahors!”

  “My last name is Cathers. What are you?” Daniel shouted even as he struggled to calm his mind. He crawled to the bed and raised the edge of the bedspread. Bracing for an attack, he looked under the bed.

  “What kind of witch are you that you don’t know an imp?” The thing—Cacoph—hissed, baring its teeth at him.

  “I’m not a witch. My mother—”

  Cacoph screamed and launched itself. Daniel tried to twist out of the way but Cacoph landed on his chest, grabbed hold of his shirt, and leaned in so its face was an inch away. It smelled like rotten grass.

  “She dabbles, she plays. She wishes the knowledge to bring your father back from the dead. But it is not for her. She is not a true Cahors. She is not of the blood. You are, but I won’t tell you, either! I don’t answer to your kind!” Cacoph ended with a shriek.

  The imp slammed its fist into Daniel’s injured ribs, and Daniel screamed in pain. “My master will kill you and your children and your children’s children.”

  “I don’t have any children!” Daniel bellowed as he tried to throw Cacoph off him. It just dug its claws into him until he writhed in pain.

  “No?” the thing asked, cocking its head to the side. “Then my master will kill you someday in front of your children and then will wipe out all Cahors everywhere.”

  “There are no more Cahors. They all died a long time ago!”

  “I think not,” the imp said, foaming at the mouth. “But they all will.”

  It sunk its teeth into Daniel’s shoulder, and it was as though a thousand needles were pricking and tearing at him. Suddenly he heard himself shouting in French at the top of his lungs, “Tais toi!”

  The imp’s eyes went wide for a moment, and then it vanished in a cloud of smoke. Daniel dragged himself to his feet and made it to the bathroom, where he locked the door before stripping off his shirt. Blood was coating his shoulder and much of his chest, and he grunted as he tried to clean the wound.

  There was a knock on the bathroom door followed by his sister’s voice. “Hey, are you okay?”

  He choked back a curse. He was most certainly not okay, but not for anything would he drag Marie into this world of witches and imps and insanity.

  “Fine,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Are you sure?” she asked, her voice hesitant and an edge of fear creeping into it.

  He clenched his jaw, then exhaled to steady himself. “Fine. I just tripped and banged my shoulder. I’ll be okay in a couple of minutes.”

  “Do you want me to get you some ice?” she asked.

  He hesitated for a moment. “Yes, that would be great.”

  He listened as her feet retreated down the hallway toward the stairs. She was so rarely helpful. She must have known he was hiding something.

  “This is one secret you’ll never get from me,” he vowed.

  When she returned with the dark blue ice pack, he managed to open the door partway and accept it without revealing the jagged wounds on his shoulder.

  “Thanks,” he said, managing a grimace.

  She was trying to look inside the bathroom. “Anything else?”

  “No. Just get ready for your party.”

  She started to turn away, and another thought struck him. “But when you see Mom, tell her I’d like to talk to her.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You won’t tell her about Richard and me?”

  “No, no, I’ll leave that for you.”

  “Groovy.”

  By the time he had finished cleaning up and had changed clothes, there was half an hour left before guests were supposed to arrive. He tried to tell himself it hadn’t happened. He’d imagined it. But the cuts on his body proved otherwise.

  So he tried to force it away, compartmentalize it, save it for later. He immersed himself in the normalcy of the moment, or what passed for normalcy. Marie-Claire’s birthday parties were always over the top, and this one was shaping up to be no exception. A sparkling disco ball twirled from the ceiling of their finished basement, above the portable wooden floor she’d rented. The Bee Gees were blaring through the house. Spiral glow-in-the-dark garlands hung from the rafters, and she had set out lava lamps on card tables covered with tie-dyed tablecloths and fuchsia napkins. Then she changed her shoes for ridiculous high platforms and added some sparkle to her eyes and cheeks.

  While she was upstairs putting the finishing touches on her supercurled hair, he forced himself to go through a stack of vinyl albums in the living room, hoping he could slip some Jethro Tull into her relentlessly superficial musical selections. But his hands were shaking. He thought he was going to be sick. He kept stopping and checking under the sofa, the chairs. Opening closet doors and peering inside.

  Something attacked me. Something from hell.

  Then his mother walked in, and he felt the tension in the room soar sky-high.

  “What is it, Daniel?” she asked, her eyes hard and glittering.

  She knows, he realized.

  “Should be an interesting party tonight,” he said, trying to maintain.

  “Yes. Marie will no doubt have a flock of her boyfriends here.” She appeared to use the term loosely.

  He set down the Jefferson Airplane record and gave her his full attention. “That bothers you?”

  “They bother me. I want her to fall in love with someone who practices…” She stopped herself short and looked at him warily. He didn’t know if she was trying to pull information out of him or if she’d honestly said too much.

  “Practices what?” he said.

  “Nothing,” his mother murmured quickly, turning away.

  “Witchcraft?” he pressed.

  She jerked and turned back toward him, her face pale.

  “That’s right. I know,” he said. “You know I can read old French.”

  “Let me explain,” she said.

  Inside him something felt like a wolf leaping forward for the kill. His mother never thought she had to explain herself. It was as though he could feel her fear, her weakness.

  “Don’t, Mom. I think it’s pretty self-explanatory. You found a book about Dad’s family. Now you think you’r
e some kind of powerful witch who can really control your kids. Maybe even defy gravity. Or stop the aging process.”

  She smiled thinly, a bit of the wolf coming out in her. “You have no idea what I can make happen.”

  He rose. “Yeah, I kind of do.” He unbuttoned his shirt and showed her the bandages. “Did you send that thing into my room to stop me from reading your book?”

  “Oh, my God, honey,” she gasped. “What—what—?”

  Her reaction surprised him. And frightened him. If she hadn’t sent that thing into his room, who had?

  “Mom,” he said, “it’s not just a book. It’s dangerous. There’s a reason it was lost. Stop. Stop it now.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” she retorted, sounding more the child than the parent. “You can’t stop me practicing the Old Religion.” Her gaze traveled again to his shoulder. “Tell me again how this happened. What thing was in your room?” She thought a moment. “Was it an imp?”

  “What are you going to do if you really get mad at me, conjure up something with bigger teeth?” He was quaking. “Marie!” he shouted. He had to warn her.

  “Stop it,” she ground out. “She doesn’t know.”

  “Marie!” he yelled.

  Then his mother turned and pointed at the door. “Get out,” she growled. “Get out or I will hurt you.”

  Once again she was his mother, the woman who was always in control, who never backed down from anyone.

  He felt himself shudder, and he wanted to back down like the good little boy he had always been. Instead he narrowed his eyes and stared deep into hers and enunciated every word.

  “Stop or I’ll tell her.”

  “She won’t believe you,” she replied, raising her chin. “Trust me on that.”

  The front door opened. She was throwing him out. Fine. Fine.

  He turned and walked to the door.

  That was the last time he spoke to his mother.

  And as far as he knew, Marie never knew about any of it. He heard from friends that Richard came back from Vietnam and that Richard and Marie got married. But he wasn’t invited to the wedding, and after a while he almost forgot about the book, and the imp, and his own family.