Dead Moon Awakens: A tale of Cherokee myth and Celtic magic (Mystic Gates)

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Although a portion of the material found within this
book is based upon historical myths and lore, or refers to actual locations,
this is a work of fiction. All characters, locations, organizations, and events
portrayed herein either are products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously.

Fragments

The broken, tattered path

of wretched twists and
turns,

deceits and betrayals,

entanglements and burns,

begins
transformation

once freedom wakes and
churns,

when time’s flower blossoms,

and truth is what one
yearns.

As the closed is opened,

a treasured link returns.

Then knowing remembers;

the key one seeks one
learns.

One’s heart at last may
grieve, and Shadowkin adjourns.

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Fragments

Out of the grim mist it crawled, destination in
mind.

The mother saw it coming from their Garden of Life
and Death. It had found the gateway that led to them. Alas, her
anamchara
had betrayed her.

The daughter lay crying on her bed when something
stirred her, an energy quickening outside. She wiped her tears and crept to the
window, squatting beneath the sill. A tremor pulsed through her, and she
shivered, suddenly chilled. Her trembling fingers parted the curtains as she inched
up to see what had caused her alarm.

The mother shoved the bedroom door open; it
slammed into the wall. She beckoned her daughter to hasten to her side. Then, closing
her eyes, she forced her quivering lips to speak the chant.

Having seen it, the daughter crumpled to the floor
instead.

As large as an ancient oak, the serpent’s body
resembled dull armor, reflecting the scant light of the waning
Samhain
moon. Though the serpent appeared rigid, it undulated between the trees with
ease—slithering closer, ever closer.

The daughter grabbed the windowsill with both
hands. Her body wrenched as she struggled to get up. Her frantic grip on the
sill made her knuckles throb with pain. But, her knees were too limp. She
collapsed again.

She heaved once more, this time managing to lock
her knees and stand.

Too late.

Fire burst from the floor and encircled her mother
within a coiling wall of flames.

Sobs rippled through the bedroom.

The mother screamed her daughter’s name. A clamor
of panic erupted, echoing out into the yard … ruffling the autumn
leaves.

At once, the clamor stopped, replaced by a wave of
hissing whispers.

The serpent’s call.

Grasping her ears, the daughter pleaded with
herself to
not
turn back to the window, to
not
look again.

The whispers ceased.

A fleeting moment of quiet settled in as warmth from
the fire and crackling flames calmed her violent shivers. Had the serpent
changed its mind? She waited as long as she dared before turning to look.

The serpent’s horned head slid up their front porch.
Its raven black eyes met hers.

“No!” She clawed at her chest, gasping for air.

Whirling away from the serpent, she shrieked, “Ma?”

No answer.

Hopeless tears cascaded down her neck, pooling
above her collarbone.

Still fighting for breath, she summoned all her courage,
all her will, to make the final choice.

Her heartbeat wobbled and slowed, a spinning top
winding down.

“Oh Goddess, help me,” she muttered… .

She leaped into the fire.

The broken, tattered path

Friday, March 8

“I
died last night.” Aishling clinched her lips, a result of her counselor’s loud
huff. She glanced around her counselor’s small, corner office. Maybe she could
find guidance hiding in the bookshelves or in the diploma hanging on the wall.
“It’s true. I died in a fire, like before. But last night—” she shuddered “—I
think there was a snake.”

“What snake?” Mrs. Dawes’ black-rimmed glasses
accentuated the grimace on her face.

“The one coming for me.”

“Child, I fear you’re lapsing more and more into
that dark place again.”

“It’s not any darker than here.”

Mrs. Dawes straightened her glasses and pulled her
chin-length, silver hair behind her ears. “You do know you didn’t die in the
fire that night, don’t you? And you certainly didn’t die last night in a dream.”

“Why don’t you ever want to talk about my dreams?”

“Child, dreams are not going to help us place you
in a good home.”

“I don’t want to go to a good home. I want to go
to
my
home.” Tears welled up in Aishling’s stomach. She became queasy.

Mrs. Dawes flipped open a file on top of her desk
then focused on Aishling and scantly smiled. “I have good news. I have found
another nice Christian couple interested in fostering you. Again, we need to go
over how you should behave when you meet them. We don’t want to scare them away
like the others. This is what we will discuss today.”

No.

Looking out the window for something else to think
about, Aishling noticed eight-year-old Emily playing by the grand oak tree. She
focused all her attention on Emily, anything to keep from hearing Mrs. Dawes.

Emily’s braided hair reminded her of a time
before. She closed her eyes, hoping it would help her capture the memory. A
vision of Ma braiding her younger self’s long, copper hair came into focus. She
saw Ma’s face!—something she’d punished herself for forgetting. Her shoulders
tingled as Ma stroked her younger self’s right shoulder and kissed her
forehead. Ma whispered,
“Remember, honey, no one else can know of our
secrets.”
The vision faded. She squeezed her eyes tightly, struggling to
make the vision linger, grasping for Ma’s touch once more.

“Aishling, open your eyes and look at me.”

She flinched at her counselor’s raspy voice. The
tears had reached her throat now. Swallowing hard, she tried pushing them back
into her stomach. Her throat ached from the pressure. But she had to keep from
crying, had to think clearly. How could she sidetrack her counselor? She
swallowed hard again. “Mrs. Dawes, I’ve been wondering. How old will I really
be tomorrow? I can’t be thirteen since I died and woke up here, can I? Is
tomorrow even my birthday anymore?”

“I don’t know how to answer that.” Mrs. Dawes
slapped the file folder shut and clasped her hands on top of it, sighing.
“Child, it’s my job to help you. I need—
want
to help you.” Her frown
eased a bit. “What happened? I was so pleased when we could finally begin your
placement process. But, you have blocked me every step of the way. Preacher
Collins is running out of patience. If he has to get involved, he may very well
send you to an institution. Is that what you want?” She shook her head before
looking down and staring at her fumbling thumbs. “Maybe that would be the best.”

“No! Mrs. Dawes, you would help me a lot more if
you would just tell me where Ma is.” The tears had made it to her eyes,
blurring her vision. “No one here understands.”

“You have no idea how hard I’ve tried to
understand you. Though I cannot imagine what your first years were like in such
an evil …” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Child, I’ve made
great efforts to help you. Don’t you realize how much better off you are now?”

Aishling swiped at her watery eyes and lifted her
left foot into the chair, pretending to tie her shoestrings. What could she
say? Mrs. Dawes
didn’t
understand anything about her, about Ma, about … anything!

“I know the night of the fire,” her voice softened,
“and your mother’s tragic death wa—”

“My mother is not dead! And my mother is not
evil!” Blood gushed to Aishling’s face. She glared at the unflinching Mrs.
Dawes. Unable to talk anymore, she buried her face into her hands and dug her
elbows into the top of her knees. Maybe the pain would stop her from breaking
down.

A file drawer rattled shut. “Come prepared to
cooperate with me next week, Aishling. I will give you this one last chance. If
you cannot do so, I will have to go to Preacher Collins. The consequences would
not be good.”

Aishling pushed out of the chair, refusing to look
at her counselor again. What would happen if she screamed at Mrs. Dawes? Screamed
until her voice died! Why couldn’t she think of a spell, or chant, or something
to say or do to stop her?

She emerged from the red brick, one-story building
housing the campus school and offices. Her heart felt as cracked and worn as
the face of her mother’s tattered, antique doll.

She glanced at the sun hanging over the mountains
to the west of Franklin. It would be time for dinner soon. A whiff of what
smelled like meatloaf drifted from Carter House. Were they eating that again
tonight, too?

She shuffled along the sidewalk toward her bedroom
at Weaver House, situated on the other side of the hilly, wooded campus of
Herald Church Home for Children. Though she was still in North Carolina, her
home in Robbinsville may as well be in a different galaxy.

Emily skipped by with little Jana, giggling as
they headed toward the playground.

Since Emily had left, Aishling veered off the
sidewalk and over to the grand oak tree, her special friend. She leaned against
its massive, comforting trunk and searched its limbs for a chirping cardinal. A
sudden breeze blew her hair into her eyes. She combed it back with her
fingertips then rested them on her jawbone, staring at the ground. Why didn’t anyone
understand? Ma couldn’t have died in the fire. Her hands dropped to her sides,
not enough energy to hold them up.

Ma had taught her that oak trees radiate inner
strength and energy. But, could she crawl into the oak’s trunk and disappear?

She pressed her shoulders against its bark, wishing.

It didn’t work.

After resisting one more wave of tears, she pressed
against the oak again, this time asking for enough energy to walk back to her
room.

Remnants of another memory beckoned her thoughts.

She closed her eyes and saw Ma talking again! This
time, explaining to her younger self how she would feel if she lost pieces of
her soul—“…
numb, lifeless, no energy.
” Had her soul cracked, too? And if
it had, how would she put it back together by herself?

“
Beware of her.
”

Aishling caught her breath when she heard it. She
checked to see if anyone was around.

“
Beware of her. She’s not your friend.
”

Facing the oak’s trunk, she leaned her forehead
against it. “I hear you,” she whispered.

“
Beware of her. She’s not your friend. She’s
coming.
”

As she patted the oak tree with her left hand, she
whispered again, “I know she’s not my friend. I’ll be careful. Thank you.” Not
wanting to see Mrs. Dawes again, she trudged on.

When she walked through the front door of Weaver
House, she headed straight to the girl’s wing, and to her room.

The cramped bedroom contained two single beds and
two desks with chairs. The late afternoon sun coming in a window opposite the
door brightened the aging white paint on the room’s bare walls.

From behind her desk, she removed the spiral
binder she had snitched from the school’s supply closet earlier. She had hidden
it using one of the few
enchantments
she still remembered. This new
binder would become her first diary—something she could tell her secrets to. After
sitting at her desk, she got a pen from her backpack and wrote: