Abigail lit a fire as the sun melted behind the mountain ridge. Tracker stayed glued to her side following her every movement, walking between her legs as she walked. His light blue eyes constantly gazing up at her. I could tell Pixel was a bit jealous. He tried to climb up her leg. Tracker pushed him out of the way.
“Abigail, whose dog is this?” Mrs. Tangledwood asked, stepping away from Tracker.
“He’s a stray who I’ve been feeding,” Abigail said, petting Tracker’s head.
Mrs. Tangledwood reached down to rub Tracker’s ears but he backed away. “Terra,” Mrs. Tangledwood said. “When I turned I felt a great energy being released within me. I felt limitless. Will the ladies feel the same way? Will they be as powerful as me?”
“Each Wiccan will have their own special powers but it’s up to you to develop them, to make them stronger,” Terra said.
“How do I do that?”
“By learning spells, sharpening your skills, understanding your abilities.”
“I don’t know what my abilities are.”
I could see Mrs. Tangledwood’s aura glowing around her in bright shades of green. She had the power of rejuvenation, not just for herself but for anything she willed. I was still uncertain if I should share this knowledge with her. It might be better that she discovered it herself. Mrs. Tangledwood picked up some twigs for the fire as she did tiny buds sprouted on the branches, turning into leaves. She stood and stared in awe and then dropped the branches.
We all stood staring at them as cars pulled up the path. Pixel ran to the porch, exclaiming, “They here.”
Tracker let out a low puppy growl and lay down on Abigail’s feet, protecting her already.
I turned to my companions and said, “Whatever happens here tonight has to stay here in this cabin.” Abigail understood what I meant. Behind her back, I could see the glint of the silver knife. We couldn’t unleash a black Wiccan into the world and into my Asheville.
Tracker growled and leapt up to the front window. Abigail stood next to him, petting his head, whispering in his ear. He lay down. Agatha Hollows had placed enchantments on the gnarled bristlecone pines that lined the path from the stream to the cabin. Their strong arms outstretched crisscrossing barring entrance. Tracker had heard what Pixel and I heard. The cracking of the limbs as they gave way to the ladies of the Biltmore Society.
Mrs. Twiggs stood on the porch, greeting each lady as they came up the steps, each asking about the purpose of the meeting. Mrs. Twiggs had been very careful not to give it away. Mrs. Tangledwood stood in the kitchen finishing the potion, her back to the room. When she turned around, they stopped dead, gasping at the sight of her. They turned to each other, mumbling in disbelief. “It’s me, Emma,” Mrs. Tangledwood said.
“Emma, that can’t be you. You’re beautiful,” Mrs. Stickman stuttered. “What’s going on here?” She turned to Mrs. Twiggs.
“The reason we invited you here: Emma is a Wiccan and her powers have been awakened. We have reason to believe that the ladies of the Biltmore Society were brought together by powers we don’t yet understand. Tonight we’re going to attempt to awaken those powers,” Mrs. Twiggs said.
“What about you, Beatrice? You haven’t changed at all.”
“That’s because I’m not a Wiccan. I believe it’s because I wasn’t born in Biltmore Forest. You and your lineage go back hundreds of year to this land. That bloodline is where your powers lie.”
“What do we have to do?” Mrs. Stickman asked.
“Find a chair in the circle.” As the ladies took their places, Tracker walked by each one sniffing, peering into their souls with his ghost blue eyes. He finally settled down in the corner by the wood stove. I stepped into the middle of the circle.
“So, it is true, the cat can communicate,” Mrs. Stickman said.
“I can understand her now. She’s a witch. She wants you to drink the same potion that I drank,” Mrs. Tangledwood told them, standing next to me.
Abigail came in from the kitchen, carrying a tea service. She placed it on the small table in the center of the circle. She poured seven cups. Mrs. Stickman stared. “That’s it. We drink the tea and we all become Wiccans?” she asked. “Is it dangerous?”
I turned and faced them, shaking my head no. She smiled back.
I have to say that I relayed a bit of a half-truth because it was not the same potion that Mrs. Twiggs and Mrs. Tangledwood drank. This one was poison to a black Wiccan. No matter the outcome, Abigail would make sure that if there were a black Wiccan, she wouldn’t leave this cabin.
“Any magic words?” Mrs. Stickman asked.
I shook my head again. Abigail sat down in the rocker by the hearth, Tracker at her feet. She picked up her guitar and strummed it softly to calm her nerves. Though by some lost instinct or memory she played the song -- my coven’s song. The room began to spin. The faces around me melted like paraffin wax into puddles as the voices returned in my head. I thought at first they had drunk the tea and all were found to be black Wiccans, but then I heard Elizabeth’s voice.
“Terra, put the lantern out,” she told me, stepping back from the barn door as I opened it.
“But Elizabeth.”
“Terra, now and close the door.”
I did as she commanded. The full moon filtered in through the slats of the barn. Elizabeth stood in the shadows.
“What’s wrong, Elizabeth?” I asked. “You’re scaring me.”
She walked into the slivers of moonlight. Her condition gave her away, the swelling of her belly answered my question. “Terra, I’m with child. With Jonathan Goodall’s child.”
“Oh, Elizabeth, no.”
She took my hand and placed it on her belly. I could feel her daughter kick. Elizabeth smiled. “Yes, it is a girl. I love Jonathan, Terra.”
“Does he know?”
“I can no longer keep it hidden. The time has come and we must leave town. We plan to leave tonight.”
“Elizabeth, how will you survive? Where will you go?”
“Jonathan has confidants in the French colony of La Louisiane.”
“That’s the wilderness. It’s so far away.”
“It has to be this way. I need you, my dear Terra.” Elizabeth took both my hands in hers. “To lead the coven.”
“Me? I’m not ready. I haven’t wanded yet.”
“Terra, you’re the only one I trust. You have to do this.” She doubled over in pain, clutching her stomach.
“Elizabeth, what’s wrong?”
“The hour grows near.” She clenched my hand, her fingers cutting off the circulation in mine. Elizabeth’s familiar howled in the distance. She ran to the window, peeking out. She reached in the pocket of her cape and placed something in the palm of my hand and closed it around. “Terra, take this.”
“What is it? What is it, Elizabeth?”
“It’s a chance for new life if anything happens to me.” The howl grew louder and with it human voices sounded in the distance. Elizabeth looked out the window again; I stood behind her and saw the flickering of lanterns coming out of the woods toward the farm. She grasped her belly, wincing in pain.
“Elizabeth,” I called out again.
She reached in the hope chest, rifling through its contents. She turned, her face pale white. “Terra, it’s gone.”
“What’s gone, Elizabeth?”
“The book.” Her eyes rolled back into her head. She began to faint. I caught her and laid her onto the hay. She screamed in pain. “Terra, something’s wrong. The baby’s coming.”
“Elizabeth, I’ll fetch the midwife.” I darted toward the door.
Elizabeth pulled me back. “No, no one must know. You can do this, Terra.”
I grabbed a horse blanket and covered Elizabeth. She stifled her screams. With my eyes almost closed, my heart pounding, I looked under her dress. Through the faint glow of the lantern, I could see the baby’s head. Moments later I held her daughter as I cut her birth cord. I wrapped the baby in a cloth torn from my petticoat and placed her on Elizabeth’s chest.