“Why the cabin?” Abigail asked.
“There’s no time for me to discern which of the ladies, if any, are Wiccans and whether they have white or black magic. If they carry black magic, I will need to be prepared to control them.”
“How do you plan on doing that?”
“Agatha Hollows taught me how to control black Wiccans. The mountain folk thought they were possessed or crazy but Agatha knew the truth and knew how to take their power.” I thought for a moment. “We better prepare. First we gather the necessary herbs and plants. Once the Wiccans’ powers awake--if they are dark powers--they will want to hide from us. We must see through their disguise.”
“I thought you told me that I was the first human you’ve spoken to since turning into a cat.”
“I never said Agatha Hollows was human.”
Abigail became silent.
“Do you want to talk about what happened last night?”
“No, I don’t.” Abigail donned her boots and stepped off the porch. I led her around back to the remains of Agatha Hollows’ herb and flower garden. While all her plantings were overgrown, they were still useful.
“That one.” I held a paw up to a tall purple foxglove.
“Foxglove are poisonous,” Abigail said.
“Not if used properly. You need a very small amount to help wake the Wiccan blood,” I told Abigail.
Using gardening shears, she snipped off a few flowers and placed them in the basket she had draped over her arm. We continued walking through the garden.
I pulled out some St. John’s Wort. “What’s this for?” Abigail asked.
“St. John’s Wort contains hypericin. It’s a photosensitory substance that reacts with light. In some people, it causes skin burns but in black Wiccans it hyper reacts causing extreme burns. Darkness hides from the light.”
“OK.” Abigail shrugged.
Pixel scampered about, chasing butterflies throughout the garden. “Me happy. Me happy,” he chanted.
I pointed to a patch of light blue flowers. “These are called Indian tobacco. When ground into a powder, humans use this plant to help with respiratory problems. Agatha Hollows used it to help the mountain folk with bronchitis and bad colds. In our potion, it helps open up the lungs to make sure that the person drinking it has a lot of red blood vessels pumping through their system. It helps activate their Wiccan DNA.”
A scream rang out through the field. I turned to see Pixel sitting upright, the tracker standing over him, his teeth bared. I was wrong about him and my mistake could cost Pixel his life. I ran as fast as I could but before I could pounce on the tracker, the rattlesnake, he was protecting Pixel from lunged and bit the puppy. He yelped and ran toward the stream. I grabbed the snake by the back of its head but before I could kill it Abigail pulled a knife from her boot and cut its head off. Pixel cried, “Tracker, good, Tracker, good. Help Tracker.”
Abigail and I followed the path Tracker had laid down in the tall brush. We followed him for miles until finally we found him lying down, covered in mud on the bank of the French Broad River. He had known that the mud would help extract some of the venom. Abigail bent over the small puppy. His breath was shallow, his tongue hanging out. “I have to get him to the vet,” she said, gathering him in her arms.
“There’s no time for that. Reach in your basket and take out the mayapple. Crush it and put it on his wound. Witches use mayapple for poison. They call it witches’ umbrella. Agatha Hollows told me the Cherokee used it to treat snakebites.”
Abigail followed my instructions. The puppy lifted his head and licked her hand. He stood up, his long legs ungainly under his oversized paws. This pup couldn’t be more than a few months old. “This stuff is remarkable.”
“It’s not the mayapple. It doesn’t work that quickly and honestly I was only trying to slow the venom so we could get him to the doctor. It’s you. You did this.” I stared at her with a newfound respect and fear. She was more powerful than I had thought. Even Elizabeth would have needed a stronger potion to save this dog.
Abigail washed the puppy with the river water, scooped him up and carried him back to the cabin. Pixel was waiting on the porch. “Tracker, Tracker,” he exclaimed, circling around Abigail.
While the puppy could not be more than six months old, he was at least a good 40 pounds. Recognizing his mottled fur, I realized I’d seen this breed before. Agatha Hollows raised what she called Australian shepherds, she said because they were the smartest of the dog creatures. She trained them to pick herbs and medicine sticks and to protect the cabin. After she died, the remaining dogs took off into the wild. I knew this puppy was from their bloodline because of his russet red coat and his brilliant blue eyes. Ghost eyes, Agatha Hollows had called them. They kept their distance from me and I from them but I did admire their intelligence. Unlike some of the dogs I’ve met over the past 300 years, these dogs had no problem understanding and accepting me although it did bother me the way they stared deep into my soul. This puppy was the last of his bloodline. For that he deserved to live.
Abigail was in the rocking chair, cradling the puppy and singing softly. Pixel grabbed a piece of beef jerky out of Abigail’s backpack and presented it to the tracker. “Me friend, Tracker me friend.” The tracker licked Pixel’s head before nibbling at his ear. Pixel giggled and fell on his back laughing. “Terra, you know this dog, don’t you?” Abigail asked.
“I’ve never seen him but I’ve felt his presence.”
“When was that?”
“The first night I brought you here. I thought he was tracking me but he must have been tracking you.”
Abigail studied the dog that was now sound asleep on her lap. “Tracker, that’s what I will call you. Tracker,” she said.
“Tracker, Tracker, Tracker,” Pixel sang triumphantly, dancing around in circles before doing a somersault on the floor.
“We have to finish before the ladies get here,” I said.
A car pulled up onto the long dirt path. Mrs. Tangledwood leapt out, ran around to the passenger side to help Mrs. Twiggs. Mrs. Tangledwood looked even younger than when I had seen her the day before. Her power was growing. She would be our greatest weapon against the gathering storm. I greeted them on the porch. “Terra, I’ve brought the herbs and teas for the turning just like we made at the Leaf & Page,” Mrs. Twiggs said. “And this.” She pulled out a silver carving knife.
Abigail stepped up behind us. “What’s that for?”
“Just in case,” I told her.
I felt bad for Mrs. Twiggs. I wished the potion had worked for her. Out of all the people I’ve met during my long life, I trusted her most. There was a kindness in her, a selflessness that would not allow her to be anything but a good person. But for now I needed magic. We worked quickly into the early evening. “Abigail, how did you come across this cabin?” Mrs. Tangledwood asked.
“Terra brought me here.”
“It’s interesting. I am on the board of the Asheville Historical Museum. I’ve never seen any mention of this cabin.”
“Terra told me the woman who lived here was a mountain medicine woman during the Civil War.”
“I’d love to get more information on the woman who lived here for the museum.”
Agatha Hollows never told me where she came from or who she was. She could understand me but never wanted to talk. I knew her true self. She was a Cherokee medicine woman, a descendant of the old ones. She wore a tear dress like the ones worn by the Cherokee women driven out of North Carolina on the trail of tears. She came to Black Mountain to escape the soldiers when the Civil War broke out. She enchanted the cabin so it could only be found if it wished to be found. I spoke to the cabin in Cherokee, asking her to let the ladies find her. A deep sigh released from her walls. Agatha was wont to keep visitors away.