“Your ancestor witches could summon a storm or two but I’m afraid your bloodline has mingled for so many centuries with humans that it’s weakened your ability. With practice you’ll be able to summon some of those powers. Now that I know your strength I can help you,” I said.
I continued with each lady. “Mrs. Jean Branchworthy, throw the bundle into the fire.” As with Doris Stickman, Mrs. Branchworthy was engulfed with white smoke. She hovered in front of me, her eyes rolling back into her head, revealing Celtic fire. Her true light of red and yellow embers radiated around her. “Welcome child of Aodh,” I said.
Mrs. Branchworthy smiled. “She was the Celtic witch goddess of fire.”
I nodded my head. Mrs. Branchworthy sat back down. I called up Mrs. Bartlett. She stopped and turned to Mrs. Tangledwood, who urged, “Go ahead, dear.” She urged her. “It’ll be OK.”
Mrs. Bartlett forced a smile. She reached for a bundle of sticks and then dropped them before running out of the room. Mrs. Tangledwood and I chased after her. We found her sitting in the throne chair, which stood guard in the entryway. Her face was buried in her hands. Mrs. Tangledwood put her arm around her. “Nupur, dear, are you OK?”
Nupur lifted her head, tears stained her face. “Emma, I can’t do this. This is too much, and I'm so very frightened.”
“Nupur, we need you. I need you.”
“You don’t understand, Emma. When my family came to America, my parents wanted to assimilate into the American culture. They shunned the Hindu religion and our culture. They wanted to be Americans. They made me American. I cannot accept this mysticism, this so-called magic.”
I rubbed up against her. I could feel her trembling. I sang to her in Hindu. She smiled. “My grandmother sang that song to me when I was a little girl in Delhi.”
I leapt onto her lap and put my paws on her shoulder, whispering, “You have more strength and courage than you know, navasi.” It was the Hindi word for daughter’s daughter.
She smiled and hugged me. “I can do this,” she said. We returned to the conservatory. Mrs. Bartlett stood in front of the fire, drew in a deep breath and threw her bundle of twigs into the blaze. Moments later, the smoke lifted her off the ground. I heard the temple bells chime. Kali, the goddess of time, creation, destruction and power, floated before me. Her radiant blue and gold aura emitted intense power. Kali, the destroyer of evil, the protector of good. Mrs. Bartlett awoke from her trance. She quietly sat down by the others.
I turned to the next. “Caroline Bowers, please come up.” As Mrs. Bowers placed her bundle in the fire, I heard the faint resonance of the electric guitar. I hummed the melody to myself unable to keep from smiling as I sang along with Stevie Nicks to “Rhiannon”, the Celtic goddess of the moon. Her colors were silver and black.
“I heard it, too,” Mrs. Bowers said, opening her eyes. “What powers does the moon hold?”
“In good time,” I told her. “Please sit with the others.” Then I turned back to them. “Mrs. Raintree, please,” I said following her up to the fire.
She stood straight and tall, the yellow glow of the flames highlighted her blue-black straight hair and her dark skin. I was reminded of Agatha Hollows and the nights we sat before her fire. Mrs. Raintree emitted coral and turquoise, the colors of Elihino, the Cherokee goddess of the earth, a witch princess who ensured good harvest.
Next was Mrs. Loblolly. She shuffled to the hearth. Within moments after placing the twigs in the flame, I could smell the salt air. I could hear the flapping of the tall sails. The very large Mrs. Loblolly floated naked. Her long reddish brown hair wrapped around the body of the Nordic goddess, Freya, the goddess of fertility and war. Her colors were sea mist green and the pale white of Valkyrie horns.
Gwendolyn Birchbark bowed politely to Mrs. Tangledwood before standing in front of the fire. She placed her bundle in and awaited her revelation. Kuan Yin, the Chinese goddess of mercy and compassion, a very ancient goddess who some believed was one of the very first white witches to have walked the earth. Her aura shone red and sun yellow.
The ladies talked over each other in their excitement as they shared what they had seen. I watched Mrs. Twiggs as each of her friends began their new life. I felt sad I couldn’t help her.
Mrs. Stickman pulled her ponytail, raven hair, from behind her neck to study the streak of white. The ladies looked at each other, they each bore the same streak. “What’s with the streak of white?”
“Now you begin your journey to become a coven,” I said.
There was a tap at the French doors. The maid entered, carrying a tray with champagne flutes. After taking one, the ladies toasted each other.
“Emma, you have not burned your twigs,” Mrs. Twiggs said.
“Yes, of course.” She put her champagne flute down and stepped over to the fire. Tracker let out a low growl and ran to the long window. As she went to put her bundle into the fire, a gust of wind came down the chimney, tossing ash and embers around the room. Smoke poured out of the fireplace, choking the air. The ladies screamed and darted out onto the lawn. A spark caught the velvet couch, which ignited instantly followed by the drapes. Mrs. Tangledwood fell onto the lawn, choking. All around me the ladies of the Biltmore Society coughed and gasped for air. In the distance, we could hear the scream of the fire trucks. After recovering, Mrs. Tangledwood lifted me off the ground. “What is it? What is happening?”
“We’ve summoned the black magic.” My words hung in the air as we breathed in the dark smoke.
Jean Branchworthy
“Mrs. Branchworthy,” I said.
“Please, Terra, I’ve asked you to call me Jean,” she replied.
Mrs. Branchworthy, Jean, sat on her screen porch, snapping her fingers. As she did, small puffs of smoke appeared. Abigail and Mrs. Twiggs sat down in the white wicker chairs across from Mrs. Branchworthy and me.
“Oh, where are my manners? Can I get anyone some tea? I’ll have my maid prepare some.”
“Oh, no, thank you, Jean,” Mrs. Twiggs said politely.
I leapt onto the small coffee table. I could see Pixel and Tracker running in the backyard. Mrs. Branchworthy’s house was much less grand than Emma Tangledwood’s. Not much more than a large turn-of-the-century farmhouse that she and her husband had been restoring for the past several decades. Mrs. Twiggs had told me the history of the Branchworthy farm, one of the last remaining 10-acre farmettes in Biltmore Forest, each acre could sell for over a million dollars to build a 10,000-square-foot monstrosity. The Branchworthys felt it important to maintain the green space as they called it of their small community. Now almost 60 years later, Jean’s children and her grandchildren had grown and moved out, scattered across the country. Mrs. Twiggs told me that at times Jean felt left behind. After her husband died, the children barely made it home for a birthday or Christmas. Jean had dedicated her life to her husband and her children and caring for her home. I do not like the term homemaker. It seems to diminish the importance of a woman who raises a family. She was a caregiver, a teacher, and a mentor.
Jean was now snapping both fingers. “May I ask what you are doing, Jean?”
“I’m summoning fire, Terra,” she said, gazing at me.
“I see. I think before we attempt that you should understand the history of your bloodline.”
“Oh, of course. My grandparents came from Cork in Ireland during the potato famine. They settled in New York.”