“I don’t have insurance,” the girl said shifting from foot to foot. Her jeans were worn and full of holes, her T-shirt slouched over her shoulder, her long blonde hair was tinged with pink. A tattoo covered her upper arm.
“What’s your name?”
“Abigail.”
“Abigail what?”
“Abigail Pierce.” She opened the door of her rusty old car. The back seat appeared to be filled. I crept closer to get a better look and saw a sleeping bag, garbage bags filled with clothes and other belongings.
“You were sleeping in the vehicle last night?” the officer asked.
“Yes, sir, I just got into town and didn’t have a place to stay.”
The officer peeked inside the car and saw what I had seen. “You were here about 3 a.m.? In the alley?” he asked.
“I was out in front of the Wicked Weed performing until about 2 a.m.,” she said. That’s when I noticed the guitar case on the passenger seat. “And then I came to my car and fell asleep here.”
“You didn’t see or hear anything?”
“I was out. I drove 10 hours straight to get here.” She handed the officer her driver’s license.
“You’re from Chicago?” he asked, glancing at it.
“Yes, sir.”
“You know you can’t sleep in your car overnight. It’s a violation of city ordinance.”
“Yes, sir, I understand I’ll find a hotel today.”
“We’re going to need you to check in at the station when you find a place. We might have more questions,” the officer said, handing her back her license.
“I told you I didn’t see anything. Can I ask what this is about?”
The second officer spoke up, “A man was murdered in the alley last night.”
“Lionel? Lionel?” I asked out loud. My heart skipped a beat. The officers turned to look at me. I ran down the alley and disappeared into the early morning crowd.
I wandered the streets looking for Lionel until I found myself back at Mrs. Twiggs’ shop. I didn’t know where else to go. She knew Lionel. Maybe she knew where he was.
I knocked on the alley door. I knocked for a long while. Mrs. Twiggs opened the door crying into her apron. She hugged me. “Lionel’s dead. They killed him. Poor Lionel.” I hugged her back.
“I am so sorry,” I said, not having a comforting word to share.
Lionel had no enemies, just the opposite. Everyone who lived on the streets of Asheville loved Lionel. Listened to his stories, listened to his music. I looked over Mrs. Twiggs’ shoulder and saw that girl the police had been talking to. She was sitting at the corner table, the one Mrs. Twiggs reserved for her favorite customers. Next to her were her guitar and her backpack, her most prized possessions I imagined. How was she involved with Lionel? What did she know? What did she see? Who was she? Something about her that bothered me, something more than the fact the police questioned her about Lionel. I kept my distance and listened carefully while Mrs. Twiggs brought over a cup of tea and sat across from her. “Thank you,” the Abigail girl said.
“Everyone calls me Mrs. Twiggs.”
“Mrs. Twiggs, I don’t have any money to pay for this.” The girl wrapped her hands around the warm teacup, cradling it.
“Don’t worry about that.” Mrs. Twiggs waved her off. “Do you have a place to stay? It’s not safe to sleep on the street at night.”
“I have my car. I’m saving enough money to rent a room. I’ve been playing to earn money,” the girl said.
“You can play out in front of my store. I’d welcome that. Bring in more customers.”
“You haven’t heard me play yet.”
Mrs. Twiggs smiled, glancing around the small shop. It was empty at this time of day. Only myself and one other customer browsing through the books. “Why don’t we have a listen then?”
The Abigail girl pulled out her beat-up Gibson and played a song, the melody of which haunts me to this day. It was the same melody I heard as a young girl growing up in Salem. The words were different but the music was eternal. I felt a dull ache in my head and what I imagined was vertigo. The room began to spin. There were voices all around me. It was dark, young girls squealed with joy. “Constance, it’s your turn,” the giggling voice said.
“Sarah, help me.”
“All join hands.” Elizabeth said. We stood in a circle, clasping our hands together. Elizabeth stood in the center of the circle, her white flowing robe incandescent in the full moonlight, her pure white hair shone silver. Her green eyes cut through the darkness, her aura embraced us. I took a step back, releasing my hold on Sarah. “Terra, stop your silliness, join hands with the rest of us,” Elizabeth ordered.
“Yes, Elizabeth,” I replied, taking Sarah’s hand again.
“Who will recite the seven incantations of the witch’s oath? Constance,” Elizabeth urged.
“I told you, Constance, it’s your turn,” Sarah said.
Constance closed her eyes, took a deep breath and then recited from memory. “Only for good shall we use our powers, kept secret in shadows and midnight hours. Sisterhood joined never bond to break. Our bond is eternal, eternal our fate. We vow to hold sacred both nature and man and swear by the circle that we join with our hands. Protect all from evil for all earthly time. Stay true to our coven and preserve our bloodline.”
“Very good, Constance,” Elizabeth said. “Do you know what those words mean?” Elizabeth was our mentor. She was two years our elder, a young woman of 19 yet her powers were without equal. Her Oakhaven bloodline ran deep to the days of the Druids and beyond to the earth walkers before the humans appeared. “We have been gifted great powers. What we do with those powers decides who and what we are. There are some who would call what we practice the dark arts, but this is false. We are stewards of the humans, caretakers, who choose to do good with our abilities. As is true for all gifts of nature, those abilities come with a price. Each time you use your gift a small part of you is drained. Spent is your vessel of white magic until you learn your true purpose. Until that purpose is known, you must spend your magic wisely.” She paused. Her golden amulet flashed in the moonlight as she continued speaking, “There are many spells and incantations that I will teach you. I will show you the power of the herbs of the forest that will heal the mind and body.” Elizabeth raised her arms as storm clouds rolled over the moon choking out its light. Lighting crashed across the sky, filling the air with the smell of sulfur. From a distance, her familiar howled. She levitated above us as time and our hearts stood still. And then she floated back to Earth. “Tonight you must swear to me by this full moon that what you learn from this day forth you will use only for good.” Elizabeth held up a simple silver chalice. “Constance, do you swear?”
“Yes, I do, Elizabeth.” She took the chalice and sipped before handing it back to Elizabeth.
“Sarah?”
“I do, Elizabeth.”
“Hester?”
“I swear with all my heart, Elizabeth.”
“Prudence?”
“I swear, Elizabeth.”
Each one responded in turn, following Constance’s example. And then she turned to me. “And you, my brightest pupil, my dearest Terra?”
“Are you OK? You’re shaking, what’s wrong?” Mrs. Twiggs’ voice brought me out of my trance. She was staring into my eyes. I couldn’t speak. “What’s wrong with you?” she asked.
I gazed up at her, brought back to reality. That Abigail girl was staring at me, not at me through me. She had seen everything I had imagined in my head. She knew me.
She spoke, “What’s wrong with that cat?”
“She has fits like that. I call them spells. They never last long, she will be fine,” Mrs. Twiggs said.
“Is she your cat?”
“No, not really. She’s been coming into the shop since I opened it. I fed her once, and now she keeps coming back.” Mrs. Twiggs ran her hand along my soft fur. I arched my back, accepting her touch. Over the years, I’ve tried talking to Mrs. Twiggs. She’s very intuitive in many ways. She can cast her own spells of sorts with her herbs and Appalachian remedies. But she never seems to understand me. This Abigail girl is a different creature. I think she can hear me.