“Terra?” Pixel’s voice was quizzical.
“Yes, Pixel.”
“What you make?”
“Abigail is making a special potion for you and me.”
“What for?”
“It’s called a forget-me potion. It helps people not see us, rather they see us but forget we shouldn’t be there.”
“Be where, Terra?”
“Anywhere, Pixel, that cats shouldn’t be.”
“They no like cats?”
“Of course, Pixel, everyone loves cats, but if we drink this potion, we won’t have to wear our emotional support animal vest.”
“Me like vest.”
“Yes, I know you like the vest, Pixel, but even so this will allow us to be with Abigail.”
“Me love Abigail.”
“We all love Abigail, Pixel.”
“Terra?”
“Yes, Pixel.”
“You’re a good dancer,” he said before swatting me. I chased him around the cabin.
Chapter 15
May Day
“Terra, every time I come here I can’t help but think of Bryson,” Abigail said as she strung lights around the tables on the ground of the Village Green. It was here she had met her watcher, Bryson, who had met a tragic end. Now he appeared when Abigail was in danger. She had not yet learned how to summon him, but he was always watching over her as were others she was not aware of, some good, some evil.
Mrs. Loblolly and Mrs. Raintree fixed the May Day pole in the center of the ground. Pixel chased the brightly colored ribbons that hung from it. I heard his giggles. He was so easily amused. The ladies scolded him as they strung the ribbons. The lawn was immense, the interior reserved for the May Day pole. White-clad tables had been set up around the pole. A stage was erected toward the front. I could hear the strains of music as the local orchestra warmed up, and in the far corner a large tent containing food and drink tables.
“What a glorious day,” Mrs. Twiggs said as she placed a cake in the center of the sweets table. She had outdone herself. The table was festooned with trays of iced cookies in bright pinks, purples, and yellows. Hundreds of flowers adorned the tables and the grounds. The sails of the large tent billowed in the breeze. People gathered, walking about the grounds. May Day had become a festive holiday in Asheville. Traditions ran deep in the Western North Carolina Mountains. The Ladies of the Biltmore Society had always been part of the celebration. This year it took on a new meaning as they were just awakening to their Wiccan powers. The coven sat before me at a long table decorated with daisies, greeting all the folks. All dressed in flowered sundresses and the sign of a true Lady of the Biltmore Society member, a festive hat. Each lady had fastened real flowers to their hats for the celebration, trying to outdo the other. There were eight ladies in all, including dear Mrs. Twiggs.
First at the table, donned in a bright orange sundress and her large sunhat piled high with daisies, sat Jean Branchworthy. A descendant of the Celtic fire goddess Aodh, she had the power to summon fire. A powerful white witch, Aodh hurled fireballs at the invading Romans. Aodh understood the alchemy of harvesting the powers of the sun. She summoned that power through her fingertips. In the short time since her turning, Mrs. Branchworthy had made great strides in harnessing her goddess mother’s power. She had tucked her long black hair up into her sunhat. There had been whispers in town about the remarkable changes in all the ladies of the Biltmore Society. While their outward appearance was worn like a cloak, their endless energy gave them away. Each lady saw their true self in the mirror: young, vibrant, beautiful. Mrs. Branchworthy had much to celebrate this May Day. Restoration on her turn-of-the-century farmhouse was complete. After her husband had passed, Mrs. Branchworthy had continued the project. Her ten-acre farm in the middle of the Biltmore Forest was worth a fortune to developers, but instead of growing ten-thousand-square-foot mansions, she grew berries and cabbages and corn to stock the Asheville food pantry.
Next to Mrs. Branchworthy sat Doris Stickman. Though her African ancestors were brought to America as slaves, her bloodline went further back, deep into the Fertile Crescent to the Egyptians, past the Mesopotamians to the earth walkers, the white witches of prehuman history. Descended from the goddess Oya, Mrs. Stickman could control the wind and bring on storms. Her dark skin glistened in the warm spring sun; her white dress complemented her. She adjusted her large organza hat filled with camellias. Her long, delicate fingers adjusted each flower to make sure it was perfect. I had spent many nights at her estate, reading her first editions. My favorite was the story of Harriet Tubman. I had only seen Ms. Tubman twice, once when she was alive, the second when she wasn’t.
Nupur Bartlett stood, prim and proper, elegantly dressed in a Lily Pulitzer sage-green sundress; her red velvet hat had a silver stickpin and blue forget-me-nots. A descendant of the Indian goddess Kali, Mrs. Bartlett was our warrior. After her turning, I had given her a special silver knife forged by Agatha Hollows. When wielded by Mrs. Bartlett, that knife struck fear in the heart of evil. She had not used it yet but kept it close.
Gwendolyn Birchbark, a Southern lady of distinction, one of the few women in Asheville that still spoke with a Southern drawl. An ancestor of Kuan Yin, the Chinese goddess of mercy and compassion, Mrs. Birchbark exuded calm in her pale blue silk sundress and matching hat decorated with blue starflowers. She held a very special power, which at face value might not seem as such, the power of compassion, self-sacrifice. Qualities that black magic feared. Kuan Yin gave up eternal paradise to ease the suffering of others. Mrs. Birchbark’s same qualities would protect us from dark magic. She commanded the owls that surrounded her property. Owls were always a friend of the Wiccan and kept watch and brought news of danger. She was small in stature and bore the politeness of her Chinese heritage.
She chatted with Caroline Bowers, a direct descendant of the white witch Rhiannon, one of the greatest of all witch queens. Mrs. Bowers was royalty. Rhiannon could manifest dreams and desires. She used the forest fairies and nymphs to cast dreams and fulfill wishes upon the deserving. About her estate flickered many fireflies, morphed from fairies of some century. Butterflies, dragonflies, and fireflies all at one time in their genetic history were fairies. Much like the loved children’s character Tinker Bell, humans had stopped believing in fairies. Now they fly about us shadows of a memory. Her multicolored sundress swirled around her, and her large linen hat was garnished with pink, lavender, and red roses.
June Loblolly, beautiful, the former model, her once golden locks now black with the silver streak the same as that of her Wiccan sisters. No one had questioned when the Biltmore ladies appeared with black hair with a silver streak, thinking it to be part of the secret society not aware that they had become their full Wiccan selves. She sat quietly, playing with her necklace, gold and amber, a gift from her Viking foremother, the Norse goddess Freya, who had sacrificed her love to obtain that necklace. Odin had cursed her to walk the earth searching for her lost love; her tears on the earth turned into gold, then into the sea and became amber. Unlike the other ladies, June did not marry into a fortune. She built her own worth through hard work and determination. In front of her were jars of her fortune, her branded jelly and preserves. Mrs. Loblolly had the power to guide, to lead others out of darkness, to lead us to the truth. Her sunlit yellow dress danced around her long legs; her hat adorned with daffodils took on a cheerful air.
At the end of the table sat Wanda Raintree. Her witch mother was the goddess Elinhino, the earth mother. One of the sisters of the trinity, Sehu was goddess of corn and Igavhinkl goddess of the sun. Mrs. Raintree had constructed dream catchers for all the ladies to prevent black magic from entering their rooms at night. She was proud of her Cherokee heritage. Her dark black hair hung long underneath her wide hat adorned with wildflowers. Her traditional sundress was red with white strips and bore the resemblance of a tear dress, the dresses that the Cherokee women made during their forced march out of North Carolina when the army forbade them scissors.