Dark Corner

Chapter 15

May Day

“Terra, every time I come here I can’t help but think of Bryson,” Abigail said as she strung lights around the tables on the ground of the Village Green. It was here she had met her watcher, Bryson, who had met a tragic end. Now he appeared when Abigail was in danger. She had not yet learned how to summon him, but he was always watching over her as were others she was not aware of, some good, some evil.

Mrs. Loblolly and Mrs. Raintree fixed the May Day pole in the center of the ground. Pixel chased the brightly colored ribbons that hung from it. I heard his giggles. He was so easily amused. The ladies scolded him as they strung the ribbons. The lawn was immense, the interior reserved for the May Day pole. White-clad tables had been set up around the pole. A stage was erected toward the front. I could hear the strains of music as the local orchestra warmed up, and in the far corner a large tent containing food and drink tables.

“What a glorious day,” Mrs. Twiggs said as she placed a cake in the center of the sweets table. She had outdone herself. The table was festooned with trays of iced cookies in bright pinks, purples, and yellows. Hundreds of flowers adorned the tables and the grounds. The sails of the large tent billowed in the breeze. People gathered, walking about the grounds. May Day had become a festive holiday in Asheville. Traditions ran deep in the Western North Carolina Mountains. The Ladies of the Biltmore Society had always been part of the celebration. This year it took on a new meaning as they were just awakening to their Wiccan powers. The coven sat before me at a long table decorated with daisies, greeting all the folks. All dressed in flowered sundresses and the sign of a true Lady of the Biltmore Society member, a festive hat. Each lady had fastened real flowers to their hats for the celebration, trying to outdo the other. There were eight ladies in all, including dear Mrs. Twiggs.

First at the table, donned in a bright orange sundress and her large sunhat piled high with daisies, sat Jean Branchworthy. A descendant of the Celtic fire goddess Aodh, she had the power to summon fire. A powerful white witch, Aodh hurled fireballs at the invading Romans. Aodh understood the alchemy of harvesting the powers of the sun. She summoned that power through her fingertips. In the short time since her turning, Mrs. Branchworthy had made great strides in harnessing her goddess mother’s power. She had tucked her long black hair up into her sunhat. There had been whispers in town about the remarkable changes in all the ladies of the Biltmore Society. While their outward appearance was worn like a cloak, their endless energy gave them away. Each lady saw their true self in the mirror: young, vibrant, beautiful. Mrs. Branchworthy had much to celebrate this May Day. Restoration on her turn-of-the-century farmhouse was complete. After her husband had passed, Mrs. Branchworthy had continued the project. Her ten-acre farm in the middle of the Biltmore Forest was worth a fortune to developers, but instead of growing ten-thousand-square-foot mansions, she grew berries and cabbages and corn to stock the Asheville food pantry.

Next to Mrs. Branchworthy sat Doris Stickman. Though her African ancestors were brought to America as slaves, her bloodline went further back, deep into the Fertile Crescent to the Egyptians, past the Mesopotamians to the earth walkers, the white witches of prehuman history. Descended from the goddess Oya, Mrs. Stickman could control the wind and bring on storms. Her dark skin glistened in the warm spring sun; her white dress complemented her. She adjusted her large organza hat filled with camellias. Her long, delicate fingers adjusted each flower to make sure it was perfect. I had spent many nights at her estate, reading her first editions. My favorite was the story of Harriet Tubman. I had only seen Ms. Tubman twice, once when she was alive, the second when she wasn’t.

Nupur Bartlett stood, prim and proper, elegantly dressed in a Lily Pulitzer sage-green sundress; her red velvet hat had a silver stickpin and blue forget-me-nots. A descendant of the Indian goddess Kali, Mrs. Bartlett was our warrior. After her turning, I had given her a special silver knife forged by Agatha Hollows. When wielded by Mrs. Bartlett, that knife struck fear in the heart of evil. She had not used it yet but kept it close.

Gwendolyn Birchbark, a Southern lady of distinction, one of the few women in Asheville that still spoke with a Southern drawl. An ancestor of Kuan Yin, the Chinese goddess of mercy and compassion, Mrs. Birchbark exuded calm in her pale blue silk sundress and matching hat decorated with blue starflowers. She held a very special power, which at face value might not seem as such, the power of compassion, self-sacrifice. Qualities that black magic feared. Kuan Yin gave up eternal paradise to ease the suffering of others. Mrs. Birchbark’s same qualities would protect us from dark magic. She commanded the owls that surrounded her property. Owls were always a friend of the Wiccan and kept watch and brought news of danger. She was small in stature and bore the politeness of her Chinese heritage.

She chatted with Caroline Bowers, a direct descendant of the white witch Rhiannon, one of the greatest of all witch queens. Mrs. Bowers was royalty. Rhiannon could manifest dreams and desires. She used the forest fairies and nymphs to cast dreams and fulfill wishes upon the deserving. About her estate flickered many fireflies, morphed from fairies of some century. Butterflies, dragonflies, and fireflies all at one time in their genetic history were fairies. Much like the loved children’s character Tinker Bell, humans had stopped believing in fairies. Now they fly about us shadows of a memory. Her multicolored sundress swirled around her, and her large linen hat was garnished with pink, lavender, and red roses.

June Loblolly, beautiful, the former model, her once golden locks now black with the silver streak the same as that of her Wiccan sisters. No one had questioned when the Biltmore ladies appeared with black hair with a silver streak, thinking it to be part of the secret society not aware that they had become their full Wiccan selves. She sat quietly, playing with her necklace, gold and amber, a gift from her Viking foremother, the Norse goddess Freya, who had sacrificed her love to obtain that necklace. Odin had cursed her to walk the earth searching for her lost love; her tears on the earth turned into gold, then into the sea and became amber. Unlike the other ladies, June did not marry into a fortune. She built her own worth through hard work and determination. In front of her were jars of her fortune, her branded jelly and preserves. Mrs. Loblolly had the power to guide, to lead others out of darkness, to lead us to the truth. Her sunlit yellow dress danced around her long legs; her hat adorned with daffodils took on a cheerful air.

At the end of the table sat Wanda Raintree. Her witch mother was the goddess Elinhino, the earth mother. One of the sisters of the trinity, Sehu was goddess of corn and Igavhinkl goddess of the sun. Mrs. Raintree had constructed dream catchers for all the ladies to prevent black magic from entering their rooms at night. She was proud of her Cherokee heritage. Her dark black hair hung long underneath her wide hat adorned with wildflowers. Her traditional sundress was red with white strips and bore the resemblance of a tear dress, the dresses that the Cherokee women made during their forced march out of North Carolina when the army forbade them scissors.

Mrs. Twiggs, Beatrice, sat at the opposite end of the long table, greeting everyone. She wore a simple purple cotton sundress, her wide brim straw hat garnished with lavender roses. It was the same hat she wore for gardening. Her turning had been the most remarkable of all the ladies. The once large woman of eighty years now moved with elegance and grace. Her sparkling eyes, her warm smile, enchanted all who had the pleasure of meeting her. She had the power of premonition. Unlike the other ladies, I could not identify her patron goddess. Since her turning, she had many premonitions but had not learned how to decipher their meanings. I had hoped Agatha Hollows’s potion would bring her clarity, but without the right hogweed the potion was not complete or effective.

Detective Willows came up to Mrs. Twiggs. It was strange to see him out of his standard-issue suit. He was wearing aqua-blue Bermuda shorts, a button-down white shirt half untucked, black socks and sandals. He smiled at Mrs. Twiggs.

“Butch, I’m so glad you came,” she said as she noticed him eying the cookies. She picked up the plate and presented it to him. He grabbed three or possibly four.

“You know I can’t say no to your special double chocolate cookies. You’ve done quite the job.”

“Thank you, Butch.”

“Can we talk?”

“Sure.” Mrs. Twiggs stood up.

I followed behind as they went into the tent; no one noticed me. Abigail’s spell, the forget-me spell, appeared to be working. I was grateful I did not have to wear the itchy ESA vest.

More tables were set up inside facing a small stage for local music acts. They sat in the front row on the folding chairs. Detective Willows’s chair creaked with annoyance. I sat under Mrs. Twiggs’s chair.

“Now, Butch, what brings you here?” Mrs. Twiggs asked.

“We contacted the University of Richmond, trying to locate next of kin for Mrs. Lund. They have no records of a Mrs. Lund there.”

“I don’t understand.” Mrs. Twigs shook her head. “The Biltmore hired her for the Civil War exhibit. Surely they would have checked her references.”

Detective Willows finished his third cookie and cleared his throat. “Actually, there’s no record anywhere of a Belinda Lund. I ran her fingerprints and images of her face through our recognition program.”

“And?”

“And she doesn’t exist. At least not in any known database.”

My fur stood up on the back of my neck. The sense of foreboding returned.

“I don’t understand. Why was she here? And why would someone kill her?”

“We’re still investigating.”

“What happened to your retirement?”

“Retirement. I’ll retire when I’m old,” he said with a laugh. “The Biltmore Estate was good to Annabelle, and it’s important to Asheville.”

Mrs. Twiggs smiled and placed her hand on top of his. Annabelle Willows sat a respectful four rows back. She was now part of the Biltmore Estate. As many who passed away in Asheville, she clung to the things she loved most in life. First her husband, Butch. The second being the Biltmore Estate where she had worked as a tour guide. Detective Willows couldn’t retire until he felt the Biltmore and the people around it were safe, and Mrs. Willows couldn’t continue on her journey until Mr. Willows completed his.

Mrs. Twiggs darted her eyes behind Mr. Willows and smiled at Annabelle, who disappeared.

“I need to speak with Mrs. Loblolly. I understand that she was partially responsible for bringing Mrs. Lund to Asheville,” Detective Willows said.

With the news of Mrs. Lund, I felt an urgency to complete Agatha’s premonition potion. We were in the dark to the events happening around us.

As I thought about the potion, I felt a goose walk over my grave, a phrase I had heard during my childhood. I ran outside. Off in the distance I saw him, the rocking chair man, the apparition I had seen rocking on Karen Owen’s porch, opening and closing his timepiece, reminding me of the coming darkness. He stood tall and thin, dark sockets where his eyes should have been, dressed in his morning coat, his praying mantis legs stepping slowly out of the woods toward me. Karen Owen, Mrs. Owen, appeared standing over me. She reached down and whispered, “Pay him no mind.”

I shuddered. Pixel flew when he saw Squirrel, the black-and-white cat. “Me friend.” They ran off onto the dark green grass and tumbled chasing bees. Pixel, I believe, had a crush on the tuxedo female cat. I did not trust her, or perhaps I was jealous?

Mrs. Twiggs jumped out of her chair and ran to Mrs. Owen, embracing her. Mrs. Owen’s solemn appearance turned slightly receptive, almost a smile you might say. She was dressed in a fine, very old, violent-and-polka-dot sundress and black cloak. I rubbed up against the cloak. I could not tell its origin. It was silky-looking but rough to the touch. I felt a drop rolling down my face. I was bleeding from my head where I had rubbed the cloak.

Mrs. Owen opened the cloak and reached into a deep pocket, retrieving a small leather bag that she handed to Mrs. Twiggs. Karen Owen is a witches’ apothecary, a trader of teas, herbs, spices, and magic. As in any good trade, she always expects something in return. The hogweed she had just given Mrs. Twiggs had come from another time, a time before the humans. I feared its price tag.

“Beatrice, walk with me, won’t you?”

Mrs. Twiggs smiled and followed Mrs. Owen up a cobblestone path heading toward the rose garden. I kept a safe pace behind. Mrs. Owen was neither black magic nor white magic. She kept a sturdy hold on each side of that line. Hers was purely business for those who could afford her wares. I remembered Elizabeth telling me one time the phrase “time to pay the piper.” Mrs. Twiggs was about to pay for her dance. They sat on a granite bench facing the rows and rows of tulips. “Karen, how did you ever find this particular hogweed? I’ve Google searched, I’ve called colleagues, I’ve looked through spell books.”

“This strain of hogweed grows in complete darkness. It only flowers once a century. Its roots are deep in the soil of a County Cork graveyard,” Mrs. Owen said.

Mrs. Twiggs appeared confused.

“It was buried in a grave some five hundred years ago.”

Mrs. Twiggs held out the small leather pouch.

Mrs. Owen placed her hand on top of Mrs. Twiggs. “It’s okay, Beatrice. I know your purpose is for good not evil. This plant like me serves its purpose by them who wield it.”

“How do I pay for such a treasure, Karen? How do you price such a rarity?”

“In time, Beatrice, in time. Your account is good with me.” Mrs. Owen gave a Mona Lisa smile.

As I feared, Mrs. Twiggs was accruing a debt she would never be able to pay. I could hear the ladies calling for Mrs. Twiggs. She rose up. “Karen, I’m sorry, there’s so much to do for the celebration. Of course, you’ll stay, won’t you?”

Mrs. Owen sat back down. “I’m sorry. I must be on my way. Give my regards to the ladies.”

As Mrs. Twiggs hurried off, I leaped onto the bench next to Karen Owen. Without warning, I felt myself lifted off the bench by my scruff. The rocking chair man twisted me around until we were eye to eye. “Put her down,” Mrs. Owen commanded. For a moment the rocking chair man hesitated. As he did I could see an earthworm sliding in and out of his eye socket.

“Terra Rowan, you have no power in this world anymore, and without power you have no value. You think you mentor these ladies, but what you do is bring the black magic upon them. It is drawn to you and to your Abigail. The ladies will never be safe as long as you two are near them.” I knew she was right. I had no argument for her, and then for the first time since I had known her, Mrs. Owen showed a spark of kindness toward me. “I say this for your own safety too. Get to the Dark Corner.”

I closed my eyes for a second. When I opened them, she was gone. I gazed up at the sky, half expecting to see her on a broom writing my name in smoke, but that was nonsense—that’s not how witches fly. The broom was a symbol—a symbol of how the original earth walkers swept the earth clean of black magic. Shrill screams brought me back to earth. I followed the sound to the front lawn. As I ran to the sound, people ran the opposite way, almost trampling me. I darted in and out of legs, searching for a clearing. The sky over the maypole was dark. My head was swimming with a loud buzzing noise. I found Pixel flat on the ground, covering his ears with his paws. Tens of thousands of locusts filled the sky over the Biltmore Village green, like a whirling dervish of darkness, blocking out the sun. They descended onto the flowers decorating the tables and maypole. They were everywhere, surrounding us, covering my fur. The ladies’ hats were alive with black locusts as they ran, arms flailing, swatting them away. Running into the tent, we struggled to close the tent flaps, keeping the locusts out.

Mrs. Twiggs shouted over the noise. “What’s going on?”

“Mrs. Stickman,” I shouted, struggling to be heard over the buzzing.

She nodded her head and raised her hands. Lightning exploded across the sky. Dark clouds gathered followed by a heavy downpour. As quickly as they came, the locusts blew away like the great dust bowl across the prairie skyline.