Witch Test, page 8
I’m at the door when Randi belts out an angry honk. She’s frantically flapping her wings in an attempt to intimidate me, not to fly.
Dumb goose, I think.
Then a caw pierces the air. I slowly turn to find a crow sitting on one of the fence posts, its sleek feathers shining in the sunshine. It could be any crow, but I have a feeling that it’s the one from the pine tree near my house. But that would be weird for it to be here, following me. I shake my head of the thought.
Randi honks a few more times, then she kind of hisses and flaps her wings some more. That’s when the crow opens its wings. Sunshine shows through where there are two distinct gashes.
I gasp. It is the crow from my house!
“What are you doing here?” I wonder out loud.
The crow caws two quick times in response, or not, because crows don’t understand humans. I tilt my head and study the bird. Strangely, I wish I understood it.
As if anyone needs another reason to believe I’m a witch.
Then I’m mad at myself for caring what other people think. I’ve wasted so much energy worrying about that, but it’s hard not to care, especially with my ex-friends.
Meanwhile, the crow is making a racket, the caws harsher, angrier than they were a minute ago. And Randi is all worked up, honking and flapping around.
“Go away!” I make a shooing motion with my hands.
“What is going on out here?” Candy’s voice makes me jump in surprise. I didn’t hear the door open with all the crazy bird noise.
“I don’t know.” A warmth starts in the back of my nose and makes it to my eyes. I have no idea why, but I think I’m going to cry. “Randi’s all upset about this crow that followed me here.”
“A crow!” Candy grasps her hands together but quickly relaxes them.
She walks down the steps to Randi, gently shushing her along the way. The crow’s beady eyes follow Candy’s motions. When she gets close to the fence, the crow flies away to the north, the direction of my house. I stare at its damaged wing until it’s too small to see.
Candy scatters food on the walkway for Randi, and the goose immediately settles down. Then my aunt turns her gaze to the sky and shivers. “It’s cold. Let’s go inside and have some tea.”
It’s not particularly cold today and the sun is warm on my face, but I follow Candy inside the shop without comment.
Chapter 18
Witch’s Familiar
Inside the shop, we go through the beaded curtain and sit down, tea already steeping and scones on a plate as if she knew I was coming, though it’s not a Friday.
“Well that was the most exciting thing that’s happened around here today,” Candy says.
“Quiet day?” I take a sip of tea and smell jasmine and lavender. My aunt has made us a calming brew.
She shrugs. “Sundays should pick up the closer we get to Halloween.”
Summers are busy with tourists visiting from nearby beach towns, but Mother Goose Apothecary’s busiest season is Halloween. We’re only a couple of weeks out from the holiday, so I’m surprised it’s so quiet, though it does give me time to talk to Candy.
“Tell me about this crow,” she says. “You said it followed you here.” It sounds casual, but I can’t forget the way she clutched her hands together at the sight of it.
“Probably not.” I stare at the swirling blue pattern on the teacup. It sits on a saucer with a deep maroon color, not at all a matched set. I wouldn’t expect anything else from my aunt—she’s not the kind of person to concern herself with making sure things match. Then again, the maroon of the saucer brings out the blue of the cup, so maybe they do go together, just not in the traditional way.
Candy sips her tea and patiently waits for me to tell her more.
“I’ve been painting a crow that hangs out in a tree near my house. It got attacked by another bird and has two gashes in its wings.” Candy continues casually sipping, but it’s like I can feel her listening with her whole body. “The crow in your garden had similar markings, so I thought maybe it was the same one. But I didn’t see it following me from the house or anything.”
She places her cup, gold-rimmed with pink roses, on a plain white saucer. “You’ve been painting. It’s nice to create something when you haven’t done so in awhile.”
She’s never mentioned that she noticed I stopped drawing, but of course she did. That’s the kind of thing Candy always notices. She usually mentions stuff like that to me, but this is the first time she’s brought it up.
“I found mom’s old supplies and decided to try it.”
All she says is “hmmm” with an expression I can’t figure out. My aunt is being particularly mysterious today.
I decide to go ahead and ask what I came here for. “Do you believe in witches?”
“Do I believe in witches?” She mulls over my question. “I’m not sure witches are something you believe in, like Santa Claus.” We both smile at that. “As for witches with pointy hats who fly on brooms and steal children, no I don’t think those exist. But there are witches in this world.”
“I guess that was a stupid question.” My tea is almost gone, only a pile of stray leaves in a puddle in the bottom that kind of form the shape of a crow. I’m definitely birdbrained lately.
Candy puts her hand on mine from across the table. “You know how I feel about saying things like that.”
“I know. There are no stupid questions.” Then I think, Only stupid people. And then I’m mad at myself because it’s something Abby would say. My brain is getting off track, so I bring it back. “Do you think any of the people killed during the witch trials were actual witches?”
“Is eighth grade the year you study The Crucible?” she asks, and I nod. “I don’t think we did that one until high school, the same year we read Romeo and Juliet. It’s amazing how many plays by dead white guys you end up reading in school.”
That is a very Candy thing to say, and I wait for her to go off about the patriarchy, but she stays on the topic of witches.
“I think all of the accused were certainly innocent of the crimes they were accused of. I doubt anyone in Salem or in the Hillford witch trials was cursing young girls to have fits. Does that mean none of them were witches? That’s what the historians say now, but I’m not sure.”
She sips her tea. “Being a witch is less about casting hexes or making deals with the devil and more about believing in the balance of nature and the world. Sure, anyone can exploit that balance for power, but I think most witches strive to maintain that balance, seeking insight from it rather than using it for evil.”
“And you think some women lived that way back then?” I ask.
“With the oppressive life the Puritans led, there may very well have been people—particularly women—who practiced witchcraft in secret.” She picks up her empty cup. “More tea?”
“Sure.” It’s a lot to think about, but there’s something she said that I want to go back to. “What do you know about the Hillford witch trials?”
Candy talks as she heats up more water. “Everyone knows the Salem witch trials thanks to Arthur Miller.” He was the guy who wrote The Crucible. “There were witch trials long before that in Europe. But there were pockets of them here in Connecticut in the years leading up to Salem. No single community murdered quite so many people in such a short amount of time as Salem, but Connecticut has the unfortunate distinction of being home to the first execution of a so-called witch in the New World.”
She uses air quotes when she says “New World,” and I know why. Back in elementary school when we studied the first Thanksgiving, Candy made sure to tell me how no one could have discovered the New World of America because there were Indigenous people here long before any white people sailed over.
“I knew some of that,” I say.
“There’s a fairly accurate account of it that was put together by local historians about twenty years ago. It’s in the library if you care to read it.”
“Do you know if my mom ever read it?” My brain is putting things together, but I’m not sure what it’s leading to yet.
A careful look crosses her face, not the open one she usually wears when speaking about my mother. “She did. Not too long before you were born.”
I struggle to keep my eyebrows from rising up. I don’t want to admit how interested I am in what my mother was reading because I don’t want her to know about the diary. It still feels like a violation of my mom’s privacy.
Candy pours more tea and serves me up a plate of vegan potato salad with homemade pickles on the side. We eat in quiet, the music from out in the main shop area keeping the silence from being weird.
When I’ve had my fill, I blurt out the question I’ve been trying to keep from asking, “Are you a witch?”
Candy lets out a big “Ha!” and smiles. “Well, I’ve certainly been called a witch before. And in this case, it’s true. I do consider myself a witch, but you won’t catch me wearing a tacky polyester hat on the full moon.”
I smile for the first time in what feels like a long time. “You seek balance in the world and offer insights about it.”
“I do.” She looks toward the beaded curtain leading out to the shop with affection. “I’ve built my whole life around it.”
“Do you know other witches?”
“Yes. There are communities of witches all over the world, and I’m part of a local one.”
“So you have a coven.”
“Yes.” I help her clear away the plates and cups. “But again, it’s not what many people think it is.” She pauses in cleaning up and peers at me in a way that makes me think she can see into me. “Have you ever heard of a witch’s familiar?”
I’m not sure I’ve heard her right. “A witch’s what?”
“Familiar. Sort of an animal kindred spirit.” Her gaze is less intense now, but there’s a pinched, worried look around her eyes.
“Like a pet?”
Candy smiles, bringing the softness back to her face. “Not really.”
The bell jingles out front. Candy slips through the beads, while I finish cleaning up. The bell jingles several more times as I wash the dishes in the small sink and leave them to dry on a dish towel decorated with bats flying by a full moon.
The flow of customers keeps Candy in the front. I notice her tarot deck sitting on the counter. I’ve never seen it left out before and wonder if she was using it before I showed up.
There is a steady murmur of voices in the shop, so I don’t think she’ll be back here anytime soon. I quickly flip over three cards. The backgrounds are black, and the designs are primarily gold and silver with a few bright accents of blue, red, and orange.
The first card is a tower being struck by lightning and on fire, aptly labeled “The Tower.” I have no idea how to read tarot cards, but I can’t imagine this one could be interpreted as good.
The second one is upside down, but I can read the label “Strength.” The picture is of a woman and a lion. At least that one is less ominous looking than the Tower card.
The last card is the most mysterious. It’s called “Eight of Cups” and has, as it says, eight cups. They sit on a rocky shoreline and a woman stands next to them facing the water, her cape blowing in the breeze.
I’m pondering what the cards could mean when footsteps approach. I grab a few dishes and pretend to be drying them when Candy steps through the curtain.
I hold my breath as I wait for her to notice I messed with her tarot deck, but all she does is offer me a ride home. I leave the shop with lots of thoughts about tarot cards, witches’ familiars, and crows…and many more questions than answers.
Chapter 19
Invitation
As the end of the month creeps closer, tickets at the farm stand are selling fast for the Halloween night corn maze. I’ve never missed it, but this year is different. Going would break my rule about socializing during nocturnal hours and risk confronting Abby, and I have no one to go with anyway.
At school, everyone is talking about costumes. I haven’t heard back from Daya about lunch in the art room, so I have to endure Abby, Mia, and Gabrielle going on and on about their group costume.
They’re going as different characters from their favorite show—a program I can no longer stand to watch—about supernatural high school students who are constantly dating and breaking up with each other as they fight demons of the underworld.
Abby, of course, is going to be the prettiest, most popular one, whose superpower is mind reading. Some days I think Abby actually has that power, at least when it comes to me. Maybe that’s what happens with long-time best friends, they start to know what the other is thinking.
For instance, it doesn’t surprise me when Abby says loudly enough for the surrounding tables to hear, “Too bad you’re not coming with us, Liza. You could be Selena.” Naturally, Selena is the witch character. “You wouldn’t even need to dress up, you could just come as your regular old, witchy self.”
Gabrielle laughs so hard she spits out a little water, earning a glare from Abby. My face warms in embarrassment. Even though I saw the comment coming, it still bothers me. I pick at my tomato, basil, and mozzarella salad and try to ignore them.
Daya enters the cafeteria, waving a slip of paper in her hands, and rushes over to our table. She leans down and slaps a signed permission slip on the table. “Mrs. Farmica gave you the go-ahead. You can start tomorrow.”
That brings a genuine smile to my face…until Abby makes herself part of the conversation. “What does Liza get to start tomorrow? Her true transformation to hideous witch, warts and all?”
Most of the eighth grade is riveted by what is going on at our table. A bunch of people laugh, Gabrielle and Mia leading with their high-pitched squeals.
The heat has spread from my face to my armpits, which are starting to sweat, and my stomach feels like it’s on fire.
Daya straightens up and looms over Abby. “Ha ha. You know, Abby, if Liza was a witch, she could have cursed you a million times over. All it would take was a piece of your hair,” she pretends to pluck a strand from Abby’s head, “and poof, something awful happens.”
Abby’s face is so red that I almost expect steam to come shooting out of her ears like an old-timey cartoon character. Now all eyes are on Daya. I blew off the art show, but now she’s defending me against the evil villain of Hillford Middle School.
“You better watch out, Abby,” Anthony Rodriguez says from a nearby table, “or you’ll be Liza’s next victim.” He grabs his neck, pretends to choke, and drops his head to the table. After a dramatic pause, he stands and bows to a burst of applause.
Abby shoots daggers at all of us and flounces out of the cafeteria, Mia and Gabrielle scrambling after her. Anthony’s friends are high-fiving him, and the attention is no longer on me and Daya.
I’m so tired of being afraid of Abby, and not only since she dumped me as a friend. I was afraid of her for most of the summer, and I did whatever she wanted me to do, no matter how awful. She turned into an awful best friend, and I turned into an awful person.
I don’t know why Daya has decided to be friends with me, but she is already proving to be a much better friend than Abby.
She sits down next to me. “We should totally be witches for the Halloween corn maze. There are so many good ones to choose from.” She ticks them off on her fingers. “The Wicked Witch of the West, Sabrina, Morgan le Fay, Baba Yaga, the sisters from Hocus Pocus. Cameron does amazing make-up. We can talk about it tomorrow. He takes lunch in the art room, too.”
Did Daya just invite me to go to the corn maze with her and Cameron, all of us dressed as witches?
The shock must show on my face because she takes one look at me and apologizes. “Sorry. I don’t mean to assume anything. You probably have plans already and don’t want to go with me and Cameron.”
“Yes.” I shake my head, realizing this could mean something different than what I intend. “I mean, no, I don’t have plans. You and Cameron can get ready at my house beforehand…if you want.”
“Great.” She offers me a big smile.
The bell rings for the end of lunch. I pack up my bag, and Daya and I walk out of the cafeteria together. And even with a flutter of fear deep in my gut about what might happen, I think I’m looking forward to Halloween.
Chapter 20
Witch Game III
Tuesday is the conclusion of the witch game in English class. All of the accused have been interrogated by the magistrates, except for Hannah, who opted out. The only thing left to do is listen to the closing remarks.
Abby is in her element. She lays out a compelling argument for sending the majority of us to the hanging noose. We’ve learned that none of the guilty witches were burned at the stake, not in the Salem witch trials or any others in New England, including the one in Hillford. Most of the convicted witches were hanged, a few were drowned, and one was stoned to death.
So those of us who are found guilty today will be sentenced to a “hanging.” There is no real danger, this being a fake trial, but my stomach squirms all the same.
“Our Puritan society is one of faith,” Abby declares as she paces the front of the room, pausing every so often to make eye contact with one of us. “Witchcraft is the devil’s work, and anyone who partakes in it is a threat, not only to our livelihood, but to our souls. We have a moral duty to our community to protect it from evil, and the only way to do that is to remove the evilness. We do this by sending anyone who committed the crime of witchcraft to God to be judged.”
In the modern court system, arguments of sin and evil and the judgment of God wouldn’t hold up, but Mr. Juno said that faith was the foundation of any trial during Puritan times. So Abby’s speech works for the time period, though it’s not something her lawyer dad would get away with.
It does the intended job; even several of the accused nod their heads in agreement with Abby.
