I tiptoed back into the dining room and climbed up on a chair next to Mrs. Bartlett. “Please Terra, please call me Nupur.”
“Of course, Nupur. Lunch was delicious. Thank you.”
“Of course, you’re most welcome. Terra, I know the myth about Kali. My grandmother would tell me stories when I was a little girl. But when we came to America, my father forbid her from speaking of the old county.”
“I understand.”
“My grandmother believed she had special powers. She would light candles and pray to Kali and her wishes would often come true.”
“Your witch bloodline goes back through the females of your family even as the women of your family married and their surnames changed. Their heritage followed them. Your name Bartlett from the pear tree is a derivative of your ancient name.”
“I don’t understand. I married Joseph Bartlett, and he was American. His family was originally Scotch-Irish.”
“Magic knows magic. Even though he was human, somewhere there were witches in his family perhaps back in Ireland or Scotland. Wiccans find their tree name whether through marriage or through their maternal bloodlines. Your husband’s family’s magic dwindled though the years yet you were still drawn to it.”
“Shall we adjourn to the sitting room?” Nupur stood up from the table and led us into the adjoining living room, decorated with antiques. I was surprised to see a gold statue of Kali sitting on top of a cabinet. “This was my grandmother’s. I had stored it away for years. I brought it out from the attic after the ceremony.”
Abigail examined the statue closely. “My grandmother would pray to Kali to protect us, to watch over us and keep us from evil. She told me that Kali would speak to her in dreams. She told me of one dream she had of me as a young woman dressed in my wedding sari astride an elephant. I was brandishing a sword and slashing at thousands of crows that flew down upon me,” recalled Mrs. Bartlett.
“Nupur, you shall be our protector. The black magic fears you. It knows the power you could wield but you must believe in yourself.” At my nod, Abigail pulled a knife out of her boot.
The 12-inch long silver blade glowed white hot as Nupur touched its handle. “Abigail is quite good with knives. She is going to teach you how to wield it. With practice, your confidence will grow.”
Gwendolyn Birchbark
Next on my list was Gwendolyn Birchbark. Mrs. Twiggs drove along Creek Road, which ran the perimeter of the Biltmore Forest community. After leaving Nupur Bartlett’s house, I began to see a pattern I had not noticed before. I had Abigail Google map all the ladies’ houses for me. She turned around in her seat in the front of the car and held up her iPhone. “You were right, Terra, look,” she said.
The little red dots on the Google map formed a perfect circle. Without knowing why, all the ladies lived in homes, which formed a circle on the perimeter of Biltmore Forest as if they had already known they were a coven. Each keeping watch, protecting something deep within the forest. Something drew them to these woods and to each other. A crossroads of white magic bloodlines from around the world. We reached Mrs. Birchbark’s home, a Victorian. I had read her house was on the national registry and was originally owned by Olmsted’s apprentice and master arborist, Wendell Waxman.
Mrs. Twiggs from over her shoulder, asked, “Terra, what’s going on?”
Abigail related the coincidence of the mapping of the ladies’ homes.
“Mm, that’s interesting,” she said.
Tracker and Pixel led the way up the circle driveway to the wraparound porch, which was decorated with scarecrows and pumpkins and cornstalks. Abigail avoided the scarecrows. Mrs. Birchbark greeted us. “I thought it was such an unusually warm fall day we might sit on the front porch and talk,” she said. “I’ve made sweet tea.” She pointed to a small table at the far end of the porch.
Pixel and Tracker jumped up onto the small cedar loveseat. Abigail and Mrs. Twiggs found two matching rocking chairs. I leapt onto the railing, facing all of them. Mrs. Birchbark poured tea and sat in the rocker next to Mrs. Twiggs.
“Gwendolyn, how did you find this beautiful house?”
Mrs. Birchbark placed her iced tea glass down on a side table. “My husband, Stanley, wanted to live in Weaverville, 15 miles from here. He owned several building supply companies but I was really drawn to Asheville and the woods. I loved the history of it, loved the trees,” She spoke with a delicious southern drawl, her words lingered a bit longer in the air as though not willing to be exhausted.
“I understand but why this particular house?”
“We found it, now this was maybe 30 years ago? It was in dire need of repair. It had such charm and such history, I felt it worthy of the work. Of course my husband being a contractor, did a lot of the work himself. For some of the masonry and fine carpentry, he used local artisans. I did a lot of research at the Asheville library.” She drew a long pause. “I found some original photographs from when the house was built in 1890. I tried to be as true to the original construction as possible, you understand.” She paused for a moment. “I couldn’t think of moving after Stanley passed.”
“I see,” I said. “It’s a beautiful home and you’ve taken great care of it. Tell me more what drew you to Biltmore Forest.”
“I believe there is a history here, and I don't mean to seem flippant but you can feel the magic in the air.”
Mrs. Twiggs smiled as Abigail translated our conversation.
“At night I open my windows and listen to the owls. The songbirds wake me at predawn. Even though I’m just a mile from creek road and the busy downtown, I feel like these woods are another world.”
I walked along the long railing admiring the soaring aspens and cedars. I spotted several owls’ nests, a good sign that they watched over Mrs. Birchbark. Owls have always been friends to the witch, not familiars but equals in their own way. The Chinese witches brought owls with them as they walked over the earth. They were what we called the ancient earth walkers. Yes, this was a safe place.
“Terra.”
I broke from my thoughts and walked back to where they all sat.
“I’ve been doing some reading about Kuan Yin, the Chinese goddess of mercy and compassion. My family dates back to the Chou dynasty. My great-grandfather came over from China to San Francisco during the railroad expansion. He became one of the first Chinese railroad engineers allowed to work on the Transunion Railroad. Eventually that’s when he met Vanderbilt and was commissioned to help run the railroad into Biltmore Forest to bring supplies to build the estate.” She paused. “I have many photographs and letters from my great-grandfather about these railroad days and even some from his mother from China that she wrote to him when he came to San Francisco. But I’ve never read or seen anything in our family history about Kuan Yin.”
Mrs. Twiggs said, “Who is Kuan Yin?”
“Kuan Yin is one of the most revered goddesses in all of China. According to legend, she was about to enter paradise after achieving Nirvana when she heard cries from Earth. She rushed back to Earth to ease the suffering and achieved immortality.”
“Terra, I don’t understand. What powers does Mrs. Birchbark possess?” Mrs. Twiggs asked.
“Mrs. Birchbark has the most powerful magic to combat black magic. She has compassion. The way to defeat evil is through self-sacrifice and love. Her mother witch Kuan Yin gave up eternal paradise to ease the suffering of others. Mrs. Birchbark’s mercy and compassion will cloak us through the dark days ahead.”