Hedgewitch [Ch I]

Hedgewitch

FIRST DRAFT

"'If you go off to die, then take us, too,

to face all things with you; but if your past

still lets you put your hope in arms, which now

you have put on, then first protect this house.'"

- Virgil, The Aeneid, Book 2, lines 914-7

"In the universe, there are things that are known, and things that are unknown, and in between, there are doors."

- William Blake

Chapter One: The Photograph

“The magic of a face.”

- Thomas Carew, Epitaph on the Lady S—.

Evangeline Ballantyne was staring at a photograph of a woman; it was worn and creased crosswise, the photo that is, the imprint like a cross-hair etched into the skin of it. The woman was laughing; it reached her eyes, large and brown, and her smile was wide, showing off her teeth. The smile appeared to be a reaction of some kind to something off camera. She was wearing a football jersey, blue and orange, Chicago Bears printed across the front. It was too large for her petite frame. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

Angie brushed across the woman’s heart shaped face, her fingers twitched and shook, and her throat closed up with that familiar feeling that only ended in tears.

Happy Birthday, Mom.

She once thought she would look just like her mother, petite and perfect, but that hope had been crushed by adolescence. Her feet were much too big, her legs and arms gangly, just like a young filly; and she wasn’t skinny. While her mother’s hair was like rich chocolate, Angie’s was lighter, a mousier brown. And, her eyes, Angie had inherited her father’s eyes, a cloudy greenish-gray, far from a comforting, soft brown.

Looking at the photograph brought back some of Evangeline’s more potent memories, in particular a time when she was six. Everything seemed blurry in memoriam but she could still taste the cake icing smeared across her bottom lip, and the way her mother smelled of cinnamon and sassafras. She could still feel the warmth and contentment of being wrapped in her mother’s arms; it tingled along her arm and up her spine.

Her father’s voice shattered the memory. “Angie! Come on, we’re gonna be late! You know how Alfreda hates it when we’re late!”

Alfreda Devereux, her mother’s sister, was an altogether strange woman who lived on the edge of the National Forest in a small cottage. Every year at the begging of the summer Angie would spend the summer with her. Her father would drive her out to the edge of the wilderness and she would spend three months in the relative seclusion with her aunt, and her aunt’s three cats, the most ancient felines Angie had ever met in her life.

“Angie! Come on! I’m gonna go start the car…” Her father’s voice erupted up the stairs.

She grabbed her duffel bag and her fleece, and at the last moment reached for the photograph and took it. She folded it and tucked it into her back pocket.

Theodore Ballantyne was a stocky, hunk of a man. People often mistook him for a thug or a football player but he was too short to be a linebacker, too compact, too rounded. He carried himself like a tightly coiled spring, movement was all business, and he put forth no extra energy put forth in frivolous gestures. He was currently hunched over the steering wheel of his truck, his shaved head cocked to the left.

He was staring, impatiently out the passenger window, waiting for his seventeen-year-old daughter to hurry it up a bit. He was supposed to have Angie at her aunt’s by lunch and she was prone to being snippy, even downright nasty if he didn’t get her there on time. He also thought that odd, since Alfreda never seemed to have pressing appointments, but he had made a deal, and he wasn’t planning on shirking it any time soon.

Right then, Angie wrenched the truck door open and jumped inside, stuffing her duffel bag to her feet.

“Finally. What did you go and powder your nose or something? Put on your seatbelt.” He voiced gruffly as he put the truck in drive.

Angie shrugged and put her seatbelt on.

An hour or so before the turn off to Alfreda’s cottage, Theodore stopped the truck at a convenience store for some coffee, he asked if Angie wanted anything but she declined. She was curled up in the passenger seat, legs tucked beneath her, using her fleece as a pillow, trying to figure out how many shapes she could make by breathing puffs of warmth on the glass. One suspiciously looked like a hibiscus flower before it faded away, conquered by the offending chill.

When her father got back into the truck, his hands clutched at the cup of coffee, carefully he rested it between his thighs before driving off.

“You okay there, Ange?” Her father spoke up for the first time since they left home.

She didn’t look away from the window. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“You sure seem quiet today. Aren’t you excited about summer?”

“Yeah, it’s just, you know, it is Mom’s—”

He cut her off. “Right. Uh huh. I think she’d want you to be happy.”

Frustrated at her father’s denial, she had to fight to get the words out. “It’s just… I had a dream about her last night.”

“Oh.”

She looked over but her father still had his eyes fixed on the road, as if he hadn’t heard her or replied in turn, as if their conversation was just a figment of her imagination.

Angie took a deep breath. “Yeah. I can’t remember most of it, but I think she was talking to me, or trying to tell me something, in any case she seemed worried or sad, like I said I can’t remember much.”

“It was just a dream, Ange.” His voice had an odd twinge to it, and he spoke so fast Angie wasn’t sure whether he was trying to end the conversation or was covering up the real answer.

“Right,” Angie murmured. Like he actually wanted to talk to talk to me about it, ever.

She knew it was not going to be worth all the effort to push this particular discussion on him.

But the more Angie tried to hold onto those few moments she remembered from her dream the night before, the more it felt like it wasn’t just a dream.

It was raining by the time they reached Alfreda’s. Angie and her father had to run to make it inside the cottage before the downpour soaked them to the bone. It was a small house—whitewashed, with a thatched roof. The garden, particularly the climbing ivy, had long since waged a war and won conquering half the house and what was left of the lawn. Trees crept up within yards of the back porch, leaning towards it, cockeyed because of the wind. As soon as they had reached the front step, Alfreda ushered them inside. Right after Angie plopped her bag down her aunt forcefully embraced her. Angie caught a whiff of green tea and burnt toast.

To say Alfreda Devereux was an odd person would be putting it mildly. Her hair had gone prematurely white at an early age, and it grew curly and wild like a bramble bush. Her horn-rimmed glasses—the lenses like cat eyes—were a violent pink and rested against her chest on a silver chain. She wore shiny, beaded earrings and necklaces that shifted colors in the light. To Angie she always seemed frazzled, as if she wasn’t quite sure exactly where she should be or what she should be doing.

“So good to see you my dear, why don’t you take your things up to your room while Theodore and I have a little talk.”

Her father turned to her unexpectedly, and clasped her on the shoulder. “I am gonna leave as soon as I finish here with Alfreda. I have to get back to Seattle for the convention. Take care and have fun, Angie. I see you come August. Call me if you need anything. Promise.”

“Yeah, Dad, I promise,” she mumbled.

Her aunt smiled widely, showing off her teeth, before gesturing her father into the kitchen. Angie watched them go, her aunt chattering away, before she climbed the crooked, uneven stairs up to her bedroom. The top floor was all Angie’s, her aunt slept downstairs in a bedroom at the front of the house; she claimed her knees were too old to climb up every night just to go to sleep.

Her bedroom at the top was small, miniscule compared to her one at home in the city, but Angie liked it—for the most part, she really did. She told herself the cramped space didn’t bother her; it wasn’t as if she was claustrophobic. It had a window overlooking the garden as well as forest beyond. The bed was old, wrought iron, and the mattress was goose-down. Angie entered the bedroom and set her bag on the chair, next to the desk. The thing she didn’t care for at all was the decoration; everything was pink—the walls, the bedspread, the pillowcases, the carpet, even the lampshades, ranged from baby pink to fuchsia. All expect the teddy bears that were propped up against the pillows, they were white, but because of the surroundings, what appeared to be a decoration attempt by an overzealous mother, even they looked rose colored in the half-light.

Angie stretched before settling down on the edge of the bed to watch the rain splatter against the window, the sound of it hitting the house a constant spatter. She wondered what her father and aunt were talking about. No doubt discussing her. Her father was probably telling Aunt Alfreda about that silly dream, she mused, as if it meant anything, as if it contained any importance at all. Thinking about the dream reminded Angie about her mother’s photograph. The one she had pondered over earlier in the day. She fished it out of her back pocket, unfolded it, and attempted to press the crumpled parts flat.

There was a large, oval mirror above the desk. The frame was made of seashells and bits of sand dollars, a smattering of sable brown and rosy pink. Angie flattened the picture one more time before holding it out at arms length. With great care she tucked it under the rim of the frame so it stayed upright. She looked up and at that instant swore her mother was smiling right back at her.