Witch Hunt (31 page)

“You’re awfully small to do such manual tasks, aren’t you?”

“I’m stronger than I look.”

Rose shrugged. “Then you can start with my grounds. Make the statues over the winter and begin the landscaping come spring. You and your father can stay here with us.” Rose hefted a huge pot of water onto the stove and added beans, pork rind, and spices to it. “If you prove yourself, then I can line up other projects for you. As I stated in my letter, in exchange for work and housing under my sponsorship, I get a share of your income for the first three years. Then it all reverts to you. Fair deal?”

“I think so.”

“Good enough.” A soft cloud of flour filled the air as Rose emptied a small sack into a mixing bowl. In a few minutes she had worked the bowl’s ingredients into a stiff ball of dough.

Sylvan relaxed. “This house is quite impressive. Who all lives here with you?”

“Just my son, the rude one.”

“Why didn’t he come?”

“There’s a Mexican witch he’s taken up with. She’s a master of illusion. She’s my age, and though not as ugly as me, she’s no beauty, either. But try and tell him that. She feeds him alcohol and drugs. He’s part Indian and part Irish, and neither side handles that well. She uses her sex on him like a weapon, and she’s ruining him.” Rose lifted her apron to wipe her eyes. “Excuse my old woman’s tears.”

“Why is she doing it?”

“Money. I’m sure she’s working up to a marriage proposal.”

“And you were hoping that I or my sisters …”

Rose began kneading the bread dough with a vengeance. “That was my hope.”

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“Tell me about your tradition,” Rose said. “I’ve never known an Italian witch.”

“The women call themselves
strega
; the men are known as
stregone
. My tradition is from northern Italy, where it’s called
Fanarric
. It deals with the earth mysteries.
La Vecchia
— the old ways — was reorganized in Italy during the persecutions into three separate traditions to help preserve its secrets. The other two —
Janarra
and
Tanarra
— safeguard the lunar and stellar lore.”

Rose shook her head. “That sounds so structured. We’ve always worked loosely, autonomously.”

“Yes, well, in Italy lies the Vatican, with all that implies. And by the fourteenth century those of our kind were becoming scarce. A great holy woman, her name was Aradia, chose that time to appear among the peasants, and she reestablished the old ways. She was the one who organized the triad traditions.”

Rose set the bread near the oven to rise, then poured coffee for them both. “You were lucky to have had your Aradia.”

“Yes, we think so.”

“So, your gifts are earth-related?”

Sylvan nodded. “Nature, her creatures, the veins of energy that pass through her.”

“Good. You and my son will work well together. His gifts are similar. Specifically, he can control the weather — an invaluable gift for a farmer. He inherited that ability from me and his father both.”

Sylvan felt a knot of resistance take root in her stomach. She didn’t want anything to do with Rose’s son. “Where is his father?”

“I don’t know. He was an Indian who killed my family and took me. I used magic to escape.”

Sylvan felt compassion for Rose’s history, but she knew that the gods invariably had their reasons. “You were lucky to have had your man of power.”

Rose became momentarily pensive. Then she smiled, and the harshness of her features softened. “Yes, I think so.”

“About your son — ”

“Please save him from that woman! If you don’t, he’ll be ruined. He’s more mystical than practical, and he’ll never survive her. Then there’ll be no more Hawthornes. He’s the last of the line. The Puritans didn’t manage to wipe us out, nor did the Indians. Don’t let one evil
bruja
do it to us.”

Rose’s passion took Sylvan by surprise.
The gods have their reasons
, she heard a voice in her head say. “I’ll consider your request.”

Denver flew with the gods. Exhilaration filled him as he circled high above the earth in the company of black ravens, red hawks, golden eagles, and white condors. The birds weren’t truly of the animal kingdom, however. They were, like Denver, in disguise. They spoke to him in Gaelic and Cheyenne and Incan — he assumed that the Incan was a distant ancestral link through his father — and he understood their words, which conveyed great mystical truths. His spirit soared as he began to comprehend the elusive nature of divine reality. He looked down and saw the world as a brilliant web of multicolored light woven together to create the illusion of substance. The air that supported his wings was the potent mind that wove the tapestry of life. Slowly, his feathers sloughed off, then his skin, then his blood and organs, until there was nothing left but his essence, and his essence was one with the potent mind. From this place of power, he wove a new tapestry. He designed the form of a great bird for himself, and once again he flew with the gods.

The sky darkened, and a grotesque vulture emerged from the shadow of clouds. It was deformed and emitted the stench of death; from its beak dripped bloody drool that spoke of hapless victims. It flew straight at him with the speed of lightning and struck him. Stunned, he fell from the sky. His body slammed into the earth, and his mind told him that he must surely have died, but he found that he was now a small rabbit. He looked up and saw the swift descent of outstretched claws. Terrified, he scampered through the field in search of shelter, but he didn’t find it soon enough. As he was swept back up into the air, he shrieked with despair and tried to wriggle free of the beast’s grasp. He struggled — “It’s all right,” he heard an insincere voice say — and struggled.

“Denver, come out of it. It’s all right.”

He opened his eyes to find himself in Anita’s embrace. For a moment, she seemed repulsive and foul, but that image passed.

She released him and offered an odd-tasting brew to drink. He sipped it without great relish, but it seemed to help dispel the sick feeling of dread the peyote had given him.

“Too many buttons this time,” she said.

“Maybe.”

“We’ll cut back next time.”

“Yes.” The room spun and his stomach juices surged. He made it off the bed, through the cabin, and out the front door just in time to vomit all over his mother’s shoes.

Her hands on her hips, she regarded his condition with disgust. “Having a good time, I see.” Her tone was drier than her shoes.

He shielded his eyes from the bright light of morning. “Go home, Mother.”

“I came to fetch you back with me. We have newcomers to settle in. We also have house guests.” She raised her voice, throwing it into the depths of Anita’s house through the open door. “We have a beautiful, young
strega
— that’s an Italian witch — living with us now. I think she’d make you a wonderful wife.”

Denver groaned. “Mother, don’t.”

“She’s talented, her gifts are strong, and she’s got wide hips … wide for bearing babies with ease.”

Denver reached behind him and drew the door closed. “That’s enough.”

Rose grinned with self-satisfaction. “Yes, I think so, too. Coming?”

He sighed and wiped his mouth. “Sorry about your shoes.”

“I can get more shoes. But I’ve only got one son. And I love him very much.”

“I don’t get sick on it very often. Most of the time I just visit the gods.”

“There’ll be time enough for that when you join them. But for now, you’re in this world and have a destiny here to pursue. The gods would want you to do that. That’s why they’ve given you a human birth.”

“And what kind of destiny do you think I have?”

“I’ve always felt that your destiny lies in your unborn children. I have this sense of the future, of a time to come when the Hawthornes will have an important role to play in the survival of the old ways … kind of like Aradia did.”

“Aradia? Who the hell is that? Mother, you’re an old, babbling fool.”

Rose winced.

Denver took her hand. “I’m sorry. Let’s go home.”

She nodded. “Yes, son, let’s go home.”

It didn’t take long before Sylvan’s soft heart forgave Denver his initial indiscretions. It was obvious that he had been bewitched by the
bruja
. But the
bruja’s
powers were strong, and he remained spellbound.

“So, is Denver handsome?” Antonio asked.

Sylvan placed a glass of wine in his hands. He had joined her in the basement room she was using as an art studio.

“Not very, but he’s not ugly either. He has a gentleness I like.”

Antonio made a sound of disapproval. “Are you sure that’s not just plain weakness? You’ve always had a soft spot for the wounded and helpless. You’re talking about a man here, not a stray animal.”

Sylvan sighed. “Weak isn’t necessarily bad.”

“According to the gods you worship, it is. Look at nature. Only the strong survive her tests.”

“Well, I think it’s important that Denver survive. Rose has a feeling about the destiny of his heirs. And I keep hearing a voice telling me that the gods brought me here for a higher purpose than the one we had in mind.”

“Has he responded to you at all?”

“No.”

“Then it’s time you start using your magic, woman.” He paused to slurp his wine. “The gods always did enjoy a good fight.”

It was near midnight, and the full moon threw a silver glow through Sylvan’s open bedroom window. She sat naked on the floor and basked in the light for a time, drawing down the divine power that the beams symbolized. She took up her ritual brush — the one that had been passed down through her mother — and brushed her unbraided hair. She drew the stiff bristles slowly from her scalp down to the ends of her long black hair, and sang the song she had been taught. It wasn’t long before her skin tingled with energy. With each stroke of the brush, her hair crackled and spit sparks, the hair on her arms and legs rose in response, and the air around her grew warm. When the power was sufficient, she cast the spell.