“Tell Mrs. Twiggs I can help her make a potion that will unleash her powers. If she is a true Wiccan, she will be able to understand me,” I said.
Abigail explained to Mrs. Twiggs. I jumped up on the dining room table and rubbed up against her, staring into her eyes and blinking. She rubbed my head. “I understand, Terra.” The three of us worked late into the night, grinding various herbs and plants. “Terra, no eye of newt or bat wing?” Abigail asked with a sarcastic air.
“If you have some, that would be great but it won’t help.”
As we concocted the potion, Mrs. Twiggs took notes in her leather-bound book. I glanced over her shoulder as she flipped pages. There were scribblings of other potions and cures. I asked Abigail to ask her about them. “These are some of the ‘recepts’ as the mountain folk call them. They have been handed down over the years. I’ve collected them as I travel through the mountains, talking to the locals. Some of these recepts are from Europe. This one is for nosebleeds. You hold a knife up and let the blood drip on to the edge of the blade. It cuts the nosebleed.”
“Ask her about these drawings,” I said.
Abigail relayed the question. “Some of the original settlers in the Appalachians came from Ireland. These are some of the gravestone markings I found near Pisgah Forest. I believe they are Ogham, a Celtic alphabet,” Mrs. Twiggs explained. “The letters are arranged in different orders to bring forth different spells. On headstones, they were used to help the dead cross over from one world to another.”
I glanced at Abigail, nodding in agreement and then told them, “The Ogham alphabet was used by the Druids. Many of the written incantations Elizabeth showed us were written in Ogham. My spirit tree, the ash, is a vertical line with five horizontal lines branching out to the right.”
Mrs. Twiggs flipped the page. I saw the symbols for the ash, the oak and the thorn. “These three are the symbols of what the Appalachians called the magic trinity. I found these drawings on Black Mountain.”
“Agatha Hollows,” I said.
Abigail looked at me. She knew of whom I spoke.
“Pixel tired.” Pixel came and flopped on the dining room table, rolled on his back once and then laid on his side. His eyes closed slowly, his tail slapping against the wood, his front paws kneading the air as though it were a feather pillow.
When the potion was finished, Abigail and Mrs. Twiggs looked at me. Abigail said, “Do we say something now? Hocus-pocus. Abracadabra.”
“You can if you want but it won’t do any good. Mrs. Twiggs just needs to drink it. If she’s a Wiccan, the potion will enter her bloodstream and open up her bloodline. Her blood knowledge is encrypted into her DNA. Think of it like an adrenaline shot to wake up her sleeping nucleotide.”
Abigail gave me a confused glance.
“I’ve been reading every book on genetics I could find for 300 years to find a way to turn back into my true self,” I said.
On Abigail’s direction, Mrs. Twiggs drank the potion. Pixel opened his eyes and reached a lazy paw toward the empty cookie tray. We sat and waited. Mrs. Twiggs cleared her throat. “I don’t feel anything.”
I knew it didn’t work because Mrs. Twiggs’ aura color did not change. It was sky blue, a beautiful color for a pure heart and old soul but Wiccans have two aura colors. Mrs. Twiggs looked at me. “It didn’t work, did it, Terra?”
I blinked twice for no.
“I’d like to try it,” a voice from the sitting room chimed in. We stared with surprise; we thought everyone else had left. Out from the dark corner, Mrs. Tangledwood stood, her gnarled hands reaching for the glass. She downed the potion before any of us could stop her. Within seconds, her back straightened, she dropped her cane, her white hair turned raven black, her milky eyes became clear blue sapphires, her aura color turned from gray to forest green and yellow.
“Emma,” Beatrice exclaimed. “What is happening?”
“I can see.” She did a short jig and danced around the table. Pixel jumped off the table and joined her.
“Emma, your hip, your bad knee?”
“I don’t feel a thing, Beatrice. I feel wonderful, better than I have in years.”
The Pumpkin Festival
The sun shone brightly over the garden at the Biltmore Estate. Pumpkins brought in from the local farmers lay across the wide green lawn. Mrs. Tangledwood dashed between the rows of stacked gourds like a Russian ballerina. Her turning had set her biological clock back at least 20 years. It was the most remarkable turn I had ever seen. “Emma, what have you done to your hair?” Mrs. Stickwood asked her.
“Do you like it?” Mrs. Tangledwood asked, reaching up and touching her now raven black curls.
“And your skin looks so smooth.”
“Yes, doesn’t it?”
“And, where’s your cane?”
“Caroline, it’s the most remarkable thing,” As Mrs. Tangledwood spoke, I hissed at her warning her not to reveal her secret. It was too soon for the others to know. For now she appeared to the others as Mrs. Tangledwood but as her powers grew she would continue to look younger.
Abigail unloaded the last of the pumpkins while Pixel rounded up field mice. Seeing Pixel sitting next to a pumpkin surrounded by mice made me think of the animated movie Cinderella. No pumpkins would turn into carriages tonight but there was definitely magic in the air. I could feel it swirling across the field, stirring in the trees like the last of the fall leaves floating to the ground, crunching underfoot. The rest of the Biltmore Society ladies arrived. To my horror, they were dressed like witches or what they thought witches should dress like, black cloaks, warts on noses and green face paint. They carried broomsticks and wore pointed hats. Abigail gave me a pointed look. I shook my head.
At least the pointed hats were correct. When a young witch wands, she is given a pointed hat that symbolizes the pyramid. The earth walkers, white witches, instructed the pharaohs on the construction of the pyramids, using the universal truth equation. The triangle. Ash, oak and thorn bind all the powers of the universe to form the eternal trinity of man, witch and nature. Yes, the hats are correct but I wouldn’t try flying on the brooms.
Mrs. Tangledwood greeted them. “You ladies look wonderful. I’ve assigned each of you a task. Mrs. Stickman and I will handle pumpkin sales, Mrs. Branchworthy will oversee concessions, Mrs. Bowers, you’re in charge of the haunted hayride and you, Beatrice, will handle the hay bale maze. Let’s make this a great day.”
Abigail and I followed Mrs. Twiggs to the right corner of the field where the volunteers were finishing construction of the hay bale maze. Over a thousand bales had been donated by local farms along with homemade scarecrows made by the 4-H Club. “Aren’t you going to change into your witch costume like the rest of the ladies?” Abigail asked.
“Oh, no, dear, I don’t feel right after what happened to Mrs. Tangledwood. I don’t want to tempt the fates,” she replied.
“Oh,” Abigail said. “How can I help? How does this whole thing work?”
Mrs. Twiggs pulled a folded piece of paper from her coat pocket. She unfolded it and placed it on a hay bale. “This is the plan for the maze. There’s only one way in but several ways to return.”
I jumped up next to the map and studied the hand-drawn sketch. It was quite detailed.
“Abigail, I can collect tickets. Do you want to see if one of the other ladies needs help?” Mrs. Twiggs asked.
Abigail nodded. We took off, stopping at the concession stand for a fresh cider donut. “Mmmm, good,” Pixel said, climbing up Abigail’s leg for another bite. He had a sixth sense when it came to food. He appeared out of nowhere after we reached the donut stand. Surveying the grounds, I saw the crowds filtering in, many children wearing Halloween costumes. The sound of laughter trailed behind us as we reached the woods where families boarded the horse cart for the hayride.