“How do I do that? What kind of magic does it take to protect all my friends?” Mrs. Birchbark asked.
“You’ve already brought the magic to us.” As I spoke, nine owls flew out from the tree lines and landed on the railings next to me. “Gwendolyn, send them to watch over your friends.”
Mrs. Birchbark addressed herself to each owl in turn and whispered in their ears. As all but one flew off, she sat back down in her rocking chair and rocked slowly.
Caroline Bowers
As we drove to Caroline Bowers’ estate, Mrs. Twiggs played the Fleetwood Mac self-titled album. The haunting melody of “Rhiannon” has played in my head since the night of Mrs. Bowers’ reveal. Abigail tapped the dashboard in time to the drums. Mrs. Twiggs bobbed her head. Pixel and Tracker were oblivious. I had been backstage in 1975 when Fleetwood Mac played in Boston. I was living in Mystic at the time and heard about the show coming to Boston. I walked all night, sneaking past some roadies through the back door. I hid behind the Marshall amps and watched Stevie Nicks spinning on stage, her black lace chasing behind her. My heart pounded. She understood witches and what drove us. Her words spoke to me. At the end of the show, I couldn’t help myself. I found my way to her dressing room just to be closer to her. She discovered me hiding in the shadows. She was the first creature to recognize me for who I am. Neither witch nor human. Stevie Nicks has powers through her music. It is an ethereal power that transcends this world.
Mrs. Bowers waited for us on the northeast corner of the woods. Our daylong journey to each of the ladies’ houses had turned into evening. I had not yet quite understood how each of the ladies’ powers were entwined with their home site. I thought about the children’s book, The Wizard of Oz, and the witches of the four quadrants. L. Frank Baum stumbled upon a truth about witches. We are tied into geographic locations--the ladies to the Biltmore Forest and their particular quadrant of the forest.
Mrs. Bowers’ home dripped with kudzu entwined in elegantly carved wrought iron trellises. It reminded me of plantations I had seen in New Orleans. She led us to the back veranda so the moonlight could drip down on us, she said. I could hear the rush of water from the stream that ran along the back of her property. She understood the white magic of running water.
Her black-blue hair swung down her back, accenting the pale ivory of her freckled skin. Her eyes were clear and sapphire blue. Her flowing black lace gown clung to her slender frame. She floated towards us, twirling once in the moonlight. I couldn’t help but be reminded of Stevie Nicks. I was the only one who could see both versions of Mrs. Bowers. Her inward beauty and her earthly wear. When the ladies looked in the mirror, they saw their inward beauty but to those around them they appeared almost unchanged. They appeared as they should a woman of their age, perhaps more spry, a twinkle in their eye.
“Where do we begin?” Caroline trilled. The moonlight enhanced her newfound youthful glow. Her skin absorbed the moonlight like a melatonin to sunlight. It charged her.
Abigail sat in a wrought iron lounge, bathing herself in the moonlight. She, too, had an affinity for the night. Her feet danced to the silent music that only she could hear through her earbuds.
Mrs. Twiggs rubbed her elbow. “What’s wrong?” Caroline asked.
“Oh, it feels like a cold front is coming. My arthritis.”
Mrs. Bowers walked over and turned on the outdoor gas fireplace. Mrs. Twiggs settled next to the fire, wrapped in her shawl. As the Biltmore ladies felt younger I feared Mrs. Twiggs was experiencing the opposite effect. The stress of recent events had drained her. For now, I needed to turn to the matter at hand.
Abigail translated for Mrs. Twiggs as I spoke, “Rhiannon means white witch or great queen.” I curtseyed and bowed my head. “You have royal blood and possess the deepest magic of all,” I continued.
Mrs. Bowers curtseyed back. “My family were poor farmers. My father from Ireland, my mother from Wales. I don’t believe we have any royalty in our family, far from it. We were quite poor when we came to America. I married well. My husband, the colonel, was in the tobacco industry.”
I thought to myself how all the ladies had outlived their husbands, not so unusual for women in their 70s and 80s. Mrs. Bowers asked, “How can I help, Terra?”
“You, Caroline, are the thread that binds us. Your mother witch conjured great white magic. Rhiannon could manifest dreams and desires for the good of all kind. She used the forest fairies and nymphs to cast dreams and fulfill wishes upon the deserving.” As I spoke, I could see the fireflies flickering through the woods, the tiny fairies that surrounded Caroline’s estate. She could not see them yet or not allow herself to see them.
“Terra, how do I do that?”
“You do that through your dreams. You have the power to make dreams come true. You are our labyrinth of the unconscious. Reach out to each of your sisters tonight as you sleep, send out your magic in their slumber.”
Mrs. Bowers smiled and filled a goblet full of wine. “I may need some inspiration for that.” She drank it quickly and then filled it again.
June Loblolly
June Loblolly touched the gold necklace around her neck. Elaborate scrollwork was wrapped around amber cabochons. “What a beautiful necklace,” Mrs. Twiggs said.
“It’s been in my family for generations. It was handed down to me by my mother who got it from her mother. It’s always handed down to the oldest daughter.”
“It does look ancient,” Mrs. Twiggs said, admiring it.
I took a deep breath. From the kitchen, I could smell the cardamom baking. All about her mansion, fresh flowers adorned nooks and crevices. The sweet fragrance of gardenias wafted through the air mixing with the cardamom spice. We followed her into the dining room. Mrs. Loblolly laid out a beautiful table for us adorned with crystal vases full of exotic flowers. We took our places. June brought in a tray of fresh-baked bread and jars of preserves. As she twisted a jar open, I smelled the lingonberries. Mrs. Loblolly was the Mrs. Fields of preserves. Unlike the other ladies in the Biltmore society, June did not marry into a fortune. She built her own wealth through hard work and determination.
Mrs. Twiggs bit into the bread. “This is so good. I should sell this at my shop. Would you share the recipe?”
Mrs. Loblolly sat back in her chair, her gold bracelets dangling. “I’m afraid I can’t share the recipe. It’s an old family secret.”
Abigail placed a plate full of bread and preserves on the floor for Tracker and Pixel. Pixel growled at Tracker who jumped away from Pixel as he ate with an urgency, his whole body shuddering.
I stared at the necklace. I had seen an illustration of one similar in a book. “June, I’m sorry to obsess about the necklace but I’ve never seen you wear it before,” Mrs. Twiggs said.
“I’ve kept it in a safety deposit box but as of late I felt the need to wear it,” she said, touching the largest amber stone.
I remembered where I had seen the necklace. Elizabeth had a book of mythology. She had warned me that the lines between reality and mythology were blurred. This necklace belonged to the Norse goddess Freya who had sacrificed her love to obtain it. Odin had cursed her to walk the earth searching for her lost love. Her tears falling onto the earth turned to gold and into the sea, the tears became amber. The humans drew from pagan mythology, taking from it their own glimpses of the truth, but the actual truth was still sprinkled there into the stories there for the finding. June’s witch mother, Freya, appeared to me during her reveal. This was her necklace. June did not know the power that the necklace could wield. As with all the ladies I’d dole out knowledge by the spoonful rather than by the cup.