The Magick of Dark Root (Daughters of Dark Root) (12 page)

I swallowed, thinking of Gahabrien buried in the back yard of Harvest Home.

True, I hadn’t summoned him and he was a lesser demon. Even so, he could cause trouble and he had never been successfully banished.

With the aid of her cane, Mother stood, her knees popping as she rose.

“That’s why I’ve been so hard on you,” she said. “You’re so much like your father, always walking the line. And someone who walks the line, I’m sorry to say, is a liability. The one thing you have going for you, however, is that you are not a man.”

“But I don’t walk the line anymore,” I said, standing to meet her. As a teenager we stood eye to eye, but now I towered over her by nearly a foot. “I’m on your side. Dark Root’s side. Nothing’s going to change that.”

“Magdalene, you are going to be the target of many people who will want to use your abilities, like their own personal magic wand. And you’re growing in strength, moving from the maiden stage into the mother stage of your cycle.” Her eyes narrowed as they rested on my abdomen. “Only a crone is more powerful than the mother. And there are an abundance of crones who will be threatened by you. Take that as a warning.”

“I won’t cross any lines. You raised me. I’m not like my…I mean, Armand.”
 

“I hope not. But sometimes we do terrible things for the best of reasons.”

Six

ENTER SANDMAN

It wasn’t the scritch-scratching sound of the branches of the great oak tree that clawed their way back and forth across my bedroom window that woke me from my sleep on that cold November morning. Nor was it the steady drizzle of the rain as it pounded on the tightly-packed shingles of our Victorian home. It wasn’t even the suffocating dream I’d been embroiled in, a half-mad montage of dark and light––my father’s face merging with my own, twisting and turning, flipping and whirring, without rhyme nor reason.

Any of these things could have roused me from my sleep.

But the real reason I shot up, just before the break of dawn, when not even Aunt Dora prowled the house, was because I had the strangest feeling that I was being watched.

Pulling the sheet up to my chin, I gazed about my bedroom, scanning its corners and looking for shadows. The spaces where wall met wall were as dark as they needed to be, and not a shade more. I checked under the bed, lifting the bed skirt with utmost care, allowing my face to dip just beneath the frame.

There was nothing there but piles of dirty clothes.

Still…

I couldn’t shake the feeling.

Tiptoeing to the window, I peeked through the curtains.

The glass was cold, covered in beads of precipitation that ran down its flimsy pane. Outside, I could make out the rough trunk of the oak tree and the moon, hanging on the horizon like a broken china plate.
 

I pulled the curtains fully open, chiding myself for being silly.
 

It was then that I noticed it: the large, black shape hunkering on one of the branches. It leaned forward when it saw me and spread its massive wings. The bird screeched, a sound so terrible it should have shattered the glass.

I fumbled backwards, tripping over a shoe on the floor.

“Aunt Dora!” I called out in panic. “Paul! Eve!”
 

The bird flew to the window, beating his wings and tearing its talons across the glass. It was trying to get in.

“Someone. Please! Help!”

“I don’t see what all the fuss is about,” Eve said as Paul scooped up the dead raven with a dustpan and the side of his shoe. “It’s just a bird. We live in the woods, Maggie. You should be used to them by now.”

“Not this one,” I said shivering. Though I could see my breath in the cold, morning air, I wasn’t shivering because it was cold. “This one wanted to get to me.”

“Want me to bury it here?” Paul asked, presenting me with the carcass.
 

I shook my head.
 

If it were up to me, I’d have thrown the thing in the river, but Paul insisted that every living creature needed a proper burial, even the horrible ones.
 

“In that cluster of trees,” I said, pointing to a spot near the side yard where I rarely ventured.
 

He took the raven and a small spade to the designated site.

“It was horrible,” I said to Eve, recalling how the bird had beat itself to death on the window. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“You need to get a hold of yourself.” Eve’s eyes followed Paul. “You’re so jittery lately. And with all our other problems, a bird should be the least of your worries.”

We watched as Paul dug the grave and buried the creature. When he returned he said, “Maggie’s fear isn’t irrational. It’s part of the collective unconscious.”

“The what?” Eve and I asked together.

“An information system passed down from generation to generation, almost like instinct. In many cultures ravens symbolize impending doom or even death.
 

Eve puckered her lips. “That doesn’t bode well for us. Dark Root’s full of the damned things.”

 
“Ravens are also considered tricksters, masters of deceit and illusion.” Paul’s cobalt eyes flashed and he raised a finger. “Some say they are keepers of secrets, and not all of them good. So, in a word, Maggie should be worried, if she were the type to look for signs…which I think she is.”

“Or,” Eve said, handing Paul a small bottle of Purel from her purse. “He was a stupid bird who ate a bad worm.”

“I don’t know what to think,” I said. “The last few days I’ve been seeing them everywhere. This one was just more aggressive. Maybe Paul is right.”

“Ravens don’t fly south for the winter,” Eve pointed out. “Of course you’re going to see them. I see them, too.”

I pressed my palms together, wishing I could make Eve understand, but there was no getting through to her unless she experienced something for herself.

“How do you know so much about ravens?” I asked Paul as he escorted us inside. “You a closet bird watcher?”

“Nope. Just always had a fascination with Poe after I saw a few old movies with Vincent Price.”

“Poe? What’s Poe?” Eve asked.

“Only the greatest horror writer, ever,” he answered as he handed Eve her cashmere gloves.
 

They were heading to work and I was tempted to ride along so that I wouldn’t have to be here alone. Aunt Dora was visiting Miss Rosa in the nursing home and I had no idea when she’d return.

“We weren’t allowed to read Poe,” I said, smiling at the irony. “Mother thought he was too scary.”

“Well, you missed out. He was the Stephen King of his day.”

“And he wrote about ravens? Sounds kind of dull, if you ask me.” Eve brushed through her hair with her gloved fingers then checked her reflection in the living room mirror.
 

Paul nodded. “Listen to this…

“
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming,

And the lamp light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted-nevermore!”

He stopped his recitation and looked at his girlfriend, waiting for her to be as overcome by the poetry as he was.
 

“That doesn’t sound spooky at all,” she said.

“What? Are you kidding me? Maybe you didn’t understand. The raven
says
Nevermore.” When Eve still didn’t respond he said, “It’s scarier when you hear the whole thing.”

“Is it long?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Then I don’t need to hear it.”

“I’m not sure I can love a woman who doesn’t appreciate Edgar Allen Poe.” Paul opened the front door and escorted her out. “That could be a deal breaker.”

“I have other talents,” she cooed.
 

“Yes. Lucky for you.”

I suppressed a gag as I shut the door behind them. At least with Eve around, I didn’t feel like the stupidest person in Dark Root. Unlike Ruth Anne and Merry, neither Eve nor myself had excelled in school. But at least Eve was comfortable with it. I grew increasingly uneasy at discovering all the things I didn’t know.

I settled into Aunt Dora’s recliner and flipped on the TV.
 

This house was as familiar and comfortable to me as my own house, maybe more so. This was the place where The Council conducted their meetings while we played hide and seek or made forts in the attic.

I noticed an open envelope on the end table beside me.
 

In dark red letters was the word
Urgent.

I withdrew the letter. It was from tax office. The house was going up for sale, it said, unless past due property taxes of $13,589.00 were paid by the end of January.

I reread the letter, to be certain it was this house in question. It was.

Miss Rosa, the home’s owner, was in hospice care, and I knew she didn’t have any money. Aunt Dora was also without income. That amount of money may as well be a million. This was huge news. Why had they kept this from us?
 

The TV sparked and died.

“Great,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to turn it back on with the remote.

Why couldn’t I have useful powers, like turning things into gold?

I covered myself with the crocheted afghan on the armrest, and closed my eyes, willing myself to sleep.
 

As I began to dream, the image of a raven filled my brain. It tilted its head, studying me, whispering…

“Nevermore.”