“Elizabeth, how will you do this on your own?” I asked.
“It’s the only way,” she replied. “If you’re not strong enough to command the book, it will command you.”
We finished our ceremony and headed to our own homes through the dark woods, carrying lanterns, the only light visible for miles. Prudence and I shared our walk, the early spring snow crunching under our feet. “Terra, I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all. Elizabeth keeps too many secrets from us. We’re supposed to be sisters. Her Jonathan Goodall stands to inherit not only his father’s business but a tidy profit from his family’s farmland holdings,” Prudence whispered.
“What are you saying, Prudence?” I asked.
“I’m saying, Terra, that Elizabeth stands to profit from Jonathan’s good luck, and she’s willing to put us all at risk for it. Why should we suffer while she profits? I deserve nice things,” Prudence said.
“Elizabeth would never put a mortal before us,” I disagreed with her. “She’s doing this to protect us, Prudence.”
The glow from a lantern caught our eye. A dark caped figure darted into Goodall and Sons Holdings, on the edge of town. “Is that?” Prudence asked me.
“Let’s go take a look,” I replied.
She extinguished our lantern and led me over. We peeked in the window as Elizabeth pulled down her hood. Jonathan Goodall embraced her, kissing her passionately. She returned the kiss. We watched as they spoke. “You see, you see, Terra. I told you we couldn’t trust her,” Prudence hissed.
“She loves him, Prudence,” I said, trying to pull Prudence away. “She’s never hidden that fact from us. He has spoken of marriage plans.”
“And what a great wedding gift to have a bumper crop of rye to build their lovely big house in town and leave us to the fields and farms.”
I pulled Prudence away. “Let’s go before she sees us. Let them be.”
“Terra sleep, Terra sleep,” A small voice echoed in my head. I opened my eyes to see orange saucers an inch away from me and then a white-covered paw biffed me in the head. “Pixel play. You it,” he said before running off at a frantic pace through the ladies’ legs.
“Now we come to why I have called this special meeting of the Biltmore Society,” Mrs. Twiggs said. “The founder of our society, Olmsted, believed there was more to this world than meets the eye. Traveling the world in search of exotic flora and fauna he came across cultures that believed there are powers that walk among us. He found such a culture here in Asheville. The settlers of the Appalachian Mountains believe there are forces of nature that can be controlled. Olmsted studied the local folklore. He believed as they did that the trees and rivers and mountains had their own spiritual identity. That even the creatures of the mountains have a soul.” Before I could agree with her, Mrs. Twiggs picked me up and continued speaking, “This grey tabby has been coming to my store for 10 years. She taps on the door and follows me about my day’s activities. I’ve always felt a connection to her and didn’t understand why. She looks at me as though she understands what I am saying to her and she does. Today I found out that she can communicate with us.”
Emma stood up. She took a sniff of her teacup. “Beatrice, what exactly is in this tea tonight?” And, then she turned to me and looked deep into my eyes as though, if just for a brief moment, she believed I could talk.
“Emma Tangledwood, what are you implying?” Mrs. Twiggs put her hands on her wide hips. The rest of the women became quiet. “Mrs. Bowers, Jean Branchworthy not for a moment do you believe I’m crazy? Doris Stickman, how many years have I known you?” Mrs. Twiggs asked.
“Stickman, Branchworthy, Emma Tangledwood,” Hearing the names together, I finally understood. “The ladies of the Biltmore Society are a coven of Wiccans.” I leapt out of Mrs. Twigg’s arms and pulled Abigail out of the dining room into the kitchen.
“What are you doing, Terra? She was about to ask me to explain,” Abigail said.
“You can’t say anything, Abigail,” I told her, arching my back and pacing along the counter.
“What are you talking about, Terra? We need her help.”
“These women are all Wiccans.”
“It’s just a bunch of old women having tea, telling stories,” Abigail said.
“It’s their last names. Tangledwood, Stickman, Mrs. Twiggs, those are all parts of trees.”
“You’re not making any sense,” Abigail said.
“Witches’ true names date back to the times of the Druids who held trees sacred. The word Druid translates to keepers of the oaks. These names date back to the very beginning of time. They change throughout the millennia from the Druid name for oak to oak haven and many derivatives but they all have the witches’ spirit tree in their name. As I told you, mine is Rowan, which means mountain ash. Elizabeth, the leader of my coven, her last name was Oakhaven. Her descendants stretch back to the old ones.”
“So what is a Wiccan?” Abigail asked.
“Wiccans, true Wiccans--not the religious version of nature worshippers they’ve become in your time but the real Wiccans have bloodlines that date back to witches. When a witch marries a mortal, they have to give up their powers but their bloodline continues through their children. Their blood is mixed with mortal blood making them a half-witch or Wiccan. There are exceptions, they’re very rare. That bloodline continues as the centuries pass. Without training, the Wiccans lose their power and don’t even know that they carry the bloodline. These women all have powers they are not aware of.”
“What’s the problem? Tell them. They can help us, too,” Abigail said, making it sound so easy.
“You don’t understand. Besides Mrs. Twiggs and Mrs. Tangledwood, I don’t know these other women. Their bloodlines could hold white or black magic. I could unleash evil into the world. We must tread carefully and learn their real purpose,” I told her.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Abigail, will you please come in here, right now dear?” Mrs. Twiggs called from the dining room. “This is Abigail. She can hear the cat talk. Abigail, talk to the cat,” Mrs. Twiggs commanded.
Abigail stood silent assessing the room and the waiting ladies. “Mrs. Twiggs, I don’t know what you want me to do.”
“Abigail, at the funeral today, what about all those things you told me that no one but the cat could have known?” Mrs. Twiggs gave me a shocked look.
“Mrs. Twigs, you were very upset. It’s very understandable. A friend of yours was murdered in your alley. No one would expect you not to be upset,” Abigail said.
Mrs. Stickman cleared her throat and stood. “Beatrice, we’re going to call an end to the meeting.”
“Wait, don’t go,” Mrs. Twiggs pleaded.
Shaking their heads, the ladies filed out, one after another, leaving Mrs. Twiggs alone with Abigail and myself. Mrs. Twiggs walked over and locked the front door, then turned to us with a stern look. “What’s this all about, Abigail?”
Abigail explained everything I had told her about the ladies. Mrs. Twiggs plopped down on a tiny wooden chair that creaked and wobbled not wanting to accept the load. “Is the cat speaking to you now?”