I closed my eyes for a second. When I opened them, she was gone. I gazed up at the sky, half expecting to see her on a broom writing my name in smoke, but that was nonsense—that’s not how witches fly. The broom was a symbol—a symbol of how the original earth walkers swept the earth clean of black magic. Shrill screams brought me back to earth. I followed the sound to the front lawn. As I ran to the sound, people ran the opposite way, almost trampling me. I darted in and out of legs, searching for a clearing. The sky over the maypole was dark. My head was swimming with a loud buzzing noise. I found Pixel flat on the ground, covering his ears with his paws. Tens of thousands of locusts filled the sky over the Biltmore Village green, like a whirling dervish of darkness, blocking out the sun. They descended onto the flowers decorating the tables and maypole. They were everywhere, surrounding us, covering my fur. The ladies’ hats were alive with black locusts as they ran, arms flailing, swatting them away. Running into the tent, we struggled to close the tent flaps, keeping the locusts out.
Mrs. Twiggs shouted over the noise. “What’s going on?”
“Mrs. Stickman,” I shouted, struggling to be heard over the buzzing.
She nodded her head and raised her hands. Lightning exploded across the sky. Dark clouds gathered followed by a heavy downpour. As quickly as they came, the locusts blew away like the great dust bowl across the prairie skyline.
Chapter 16
A Wiccan Pajama Party
The sun extinguished over Black Mountain where we had retreated after we had cleaned up the village green. The ladies sat around the table in the cabin. They appeared defeated, war torn, their hats tattered. Mrs. Twiggs paced back and forth in front of them.
Mrs. Stickman stood up. “Okay, if no one else is going to say it, I will. What was that Biblical apocalyptic nightmare? What just happened in downtown Biltmore Village?”
“Terra’s working on that, trying to figure out where the locusts came from and what brought them here,” Mrs. Twiggs said.
“What you mean is who sent them?”
Mrs. Twiggs was silent and sat down. Then she said, “We’ve all felt dark creatures stirring. Am I right?” The ladies nodded their heads. “And we’ve all felt the coming of May Day and the magic it brings forth.” They all nodded their heads again. Mrs. Twiggs continued, “For every action of white magic, there is an equal and opposite reaction of black magic. Our celebration of May Day, our first as a coven of Wiccans, drew the black magic to us. That’s why it’s more important now than ever that we close our ranks, hone our skills.”
June Loblolly stood up. She took her hat off, flinging it on the table. “I for one am tired of being afraid of black magic. I’m not going to live my life in fear.”
One by one, each lady stood and threw their hats onto the table. After throwing hers, Mrs. Twiggs smiled. “There’s the spirit, ladies. There’s nothing we can’t overcome if we believe in ourselves.”
Mrs. Bartlett pulled her silver blade out of her cloak. In a wink of an eye, she threw it across the room where it stuck deep in the wall. Abigail ran over to remove it and the spider that clung to it. She examined the spider, and then she placed it in the center of the table where it stood perfectly still. It was no larger than a half dollar, black with red eyes. The blade flew back into Mrs. Bartlett’s hand. She stabbed the table in front of the spider. It cringed.
Mrs. Bartlett bent down and spoke to the creature. “I see you, and I see your kind around my house, watching. Return to the darkness and don’t come back.” The spider evaporated up in smoke.
“There are spies all around us, ladies,” Mrs. Twiggs said. “Minions of the darkness. Tonight we celebrate the last hours of May Day. When the veil between white and black magic is at its thinnest. We will draw the white magic to us and shut out the black magic.” Mrs. Twiggs filled the sherry glasses. She added a pinch of nettle leaf to each. They raised their glasses in harmony. “To all that is good,” they said in unison. They drank it down and went out the door.
I stopped Abigail at the door. “What are you doing, Terra?”
“This is not for you, Abigail. This is their battle. We can’t always be there to protect them.” I knew that Abigail and I would be leaving and might not be coming back.
“What do you mean?” Abigail asked.
“You are not a part of the coven.”
“I want to watch.” Abigail and I followed the ladies to the clearing, which was surrounded by oak, ash, and thorn trees deliberately planted by Agatha Hollows. A blood-red moon hung in the sky.
We sat quietly at a respectful distance as we watched the ladies join hands in a circle. They danced in that circle for hours with the enthusiasm of children. I felt the ripple of their joy as it expanded out into the woods. I heard the creatures in the shadows that had been watching us, scream in agony and run, slither, and fly away. Abigail looked around. She heard what I heard. She saw what I was seeing. Apparitions came out of the woods. Gentle creatures being drawn to the love of the coven.
Pixel crawled up next to me. “Who they?” he said, stuttering.
“Pixel, you can see them?”
He nodded.
“Those are humans caught between worlds.”
Pixel nodded, appearing to understand me. “Like Mr. Twiggs?”
At midnight the ladies finally stopped their dance and fell to the ground, staring up at the stars. I walked around to each of the ladies and pointed out their star. I had known from the moment they turned where their stars were.
It was much too late for everyone to drive home. Mrs. Twiggs arranged the cabin with hand-sewn patchwork quilts, air mattresses, and feather pillows. We lit a fire and camped out in the living room. Abigail twitched her nose and conjured pajamas for all of them. The ladies’ faces glowed from the firelight. With their giggles and smiles, they resembled a troop of Girl Scouts. I knew from that minute forth no darkness could enter their circle even without the ninth Wiccan. The Ladies of the Biltmore Society had become a sisterhood of warriors.
Chapter 17
Doris Stickman
Doris Stickman has become an enigma to me. At one time, she was a woman of physical frailty, relying on her cane for guidance but demonstrating an incredible inner strength. A passionate woman with great empathy for those around her, she cannot control her ability to summon storms and to control natural disasters. This I see as a great concern; her emotions are so deeply tied to the environment around us. A gentle tear could turn into a monsoon. An angry word into a hurricane. I did not know how much time I had left, and for that reason I chose to do what I could, to best leave the ladies. Each would have their day and their part to play, but this day belonged to Doris Stickman. We left the other ladies asleep in the cabin and stepped out into the stillness of the dawn. A morning mist rolled off the mountains, capping their blue tips, merging the peaks into the skies.
Abigail quietly closed the cabin door behind us. Pixel complained and finally gave in once I explained he needed to stay and protect the ladies. He knew I was telling a half-truth but respected my wishes. What we were about to do was too dangerous to risk his life.
Dressed in her purple African dashiki, Mrs. Stickman relied on her carved walking stick, with a cobra head made of copper, to lead her up the path. We followed the path up Black Mountain until it ended. The mountain laurels twisted, locking arms, blocking our way. Abigail spoke an incantation, and their gnarled branches unraveled, parting like the Red Sea. We continued up the mountain, Mrs. Stickman never asking where we were going. She understood. After summoning the storm at Biltmore Village, she understood the powers she wielded. We reached a plateau, no more than two thousand feet above the cabin. Abigail flung her backpack to the ground, sitting down cross-legged. Mrs. Stickman sat next to her, relying on her cane to lower her down.