The Witches of Dark Root Read online

  Lucky for me all he found was static and turned the radio off.

  “As I recall,” he continued undeterred. “Dark Root was quite charming.”

  We passed small trees in all stages of color transformation. Yellow, orange, red, and brown leaves clung uncertainly to thick branches. I turned sharply off the main road and we fell into a forest––a shortcut of mine. The trees were larger here, mighty redwoods with upturned boughs, reaching for the last rays of sunshine before succumbing to another soggy winter. We opened into a clearing, jouncing along a gravel path until we merged again with the main road. The semi-darkness that had swallowed us in the woods was replaced by the white light of morning.

  I pushed a pair of cheap sunglasses onto my face, not slowing my speed.

  “Don’t ignore me, Maggie,” Michael said. “I hate it when you ignore me.”

  I gave him a sideways glance and tightened my hands on the wheel.

  Michael had been in Dark Root an entire twelve hours––long enough to use the public restroom, eat a sandwich, and charm me into coming with him. In all the time we had known each other since then, he had never once asked about my family or the town where I had spent the first twenty years of my life.

  “Is something burning?” Michael sniffed at the air through the open window.

  I inhaled and nodded, uncertain if it were coming from the tires or the engine. Either way, I was not stopping to find out. I rolled up the windows with the button on my door, one of the few gadgets that actually worked in this rolling pressure cooker.

  Michael fanned himself but didn’t say anything. Unless he wanted to change a tire he knew better than to complain about the heat.

  Finally, our exit came into view and I swerved onto it, kicking up dust and rocks around us.

  “You could go for just a few days,” Michael continued as I skidded into a parking space at the grocery store. “...Go help your family and come back.”

  I stormed out, trying to slam my door shut, but it wouldn’t catch the latch. I wrestled with it until it clamped shut and then stomped inside. Michael followed, calling for me to wait.

  “...Are you trying to get rid of me?” I said.

  I turned to him once I was safely inside Grocery World. Cool air blasted over my body, peeling the damp hair away from my face. The foliage might be declaring that it was fall, but the temperature outside indicated otherwise.

  I stood for a moment, wondering once again why we weren’t allowed to have air conditioning at Woodhaven. Open windows and ceiling fans were our only reprieves from the heat.

  Thank God we lived in California. Michael had originally wanted to settle in the Southwest, where he was certain ‘The Greys’ would make contact with us prior to the end times coming. It took me awhile to convince him that if there really was an intelligent alien race sent to warn us of an impending doomsday, they could just as easily find us in Northern California as they could in New Mexico.

  “Why would you think I’m trying to get rid of you?” Michael asked, picking up a sales flier from the bin by the door. He looked it over, folded it, and returned it to its bin. “I’m trying to be supportive.”

  “Well, I don’t get it,” I said. “You have a lot of good qualities, but being supportive of me being around anyone other than fellow members isn’t one of them. You never let me go anywhere without an escort. I have to take a body guard to go to Wal-Mart. And now you want me to go home? It’s just not adding up.”

  “First of all, Jason isn’t a bodyguard,” Michael said. “...He’s your friend, and there are quite a few young ladies who would gladly trade places with you for that privilege. Secondly, who would ever want to get rid of you? You’re far too agreeable.” Michael smiled, his dimples poking through his sculpted cheeks. Dark stubble covered his jaw line and the two top buttons on his denim shirt were left undone.

  He looked rugged and uncivilized. And unfairly sexy.

  I turned my head before I fell prey to his charms.

  I grabbed a shopping cart for myself and shoved one in his direction. He caught it and immediately wiped the handle off with one of the complimentary moist wipes from a nearby dispenser. He grabbed another to clean his hands, and then tossed both into a trash bin.

  I left mine dirty just to irritate him.

  We scanned the store together, our eyes moving from the produce aisle on the left to the bakery on the right.

  A sample table filled with cookies was set up straight ahead of us and I bolted for it. I could feel Michael’s eyes on me as I devoured two cookies and pocketed a third. Michael didn’t approve of us indulging in things like sex, alcohol, or sugar in public. He said it gave people the wrong idea about our tribe.

  I argued that it showed people we knew how to have fun.

  As I wiped the crumbs from my hands, I watched Michael mentally plan our route.

  He was systematic in his shopping, preferring to hit each aisle in numerical order to ensure that nothing was forgotten. He even wrote the grocery list in the order the food appeared. Though his methods bored me, I’d usually go along with it.

  But not today, not after his agreeable comment earlier.

  I aimed my cart towards the center aisle and pushed forward, almost knocking over a pyramid of creamed corn on the end cap. Michael followed, attempting to keep pace as he threw sacks of pinto beans, rice, potatoes, and flour into his cart.

  If he wanted to be difficult, so could I.

  “We should really get a Costco membership,” he muttered, checking the price on a gallon of soy milk. He handed me several cartons of free-range eggs, twice as expensive as the normal eggs, and I wondered if anyone would notice if I swapped them out.

  At last, every item was crossed from his list, and our carts were so full I could hardly push mine. Feeding an entire community was difficult, especially our group, with their diverse food preferences. Many were vegetarian, some were vegan, and a scant few were normal eaters like me. We grew some of our own food, but without the help of a calendar or an almanac it was tough. I thought about bringing this up for perhaps the hundredth time, but held my tongue.

  I had another agenda.

  “My turn,” I said, smiling sweetly as I maneuvered my cart towards the one aisle that never found a place on Michael’s list.

  Aisle 13––the snack food section.

  I stood at the edge of it, like a queen surveying her lands.

  An amazing array of boxes, bags, and cans in orange and pink packaging glimmered before me. I checked my cart, wondering how many Keebler Elves I could shove inside before it exploded. I managed to find room for two boxes of Zingers, five bags of Potato Chips, and a case of Diet Coke. A lone package of double-stuffed Oreos balanced atop my hoard.

  Satisfied, I gave Michael a thumb’s up.

  He bristled but said nothing.

  He had learned years ago that low blood sugar and a Welsh temper weren’t a good mix.

  I drummed my fingers across the handle of my cart, trying to figure out how I could smuggle my stash into the house. Michael refused to participate in my addiction, but Jason could probably be bribed with an Oreo or two.

  “They call it junk food for a reason,” Michael said, pushing his hand through his hair, then checking his palm to see if any strands had come loose. He grimaced at the two dark hairs that no longer lived on his head. He flicked them from his hand, glancing briefly at a Rogaine display we just happened to pass.

  “You know you want one,” I said, tapping the box of Zingers. “Delicious and nutritious!”

  When he didn’t respond I removed one of the cakes, opened the wrapper, and shoved the entire thing into my mouth.

  “...I really don’t see how eating these will delay my transcendence,” I added. “If anything, it makes me feel closer to God.”

  Michael gave me his disgusted look, and I knew I had crossed a line. When it came to GOD Michael had no sense of humor.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I just miss being able to eat a donut wi
thout feeling like I were committing a mortal sin.”

  “It’s okay,” Michael said, his voice softening. “I miss things, too.”

  This was news to me. Michael never seemed to want for anything. If he indulged in a Pringle it was breaking news.

  “Really? Like what?”

  “Sugared cereal. I used to eat Cocoa Puffs by the box when I was a kid. Now I can’t remember what it tastes like. Kind of sad, I think.”

  I normally had a comment for everything, but this caught me off guard. This felt like an intimate moment, something I wasn’t used to, since coming to live with Michael. In Woodhaven there were no secrets. Everything, including thoughts, was community property.

  I wanted to reach out and take his hand, but I stopped myself; it would be like pointing out his weakness. I changed the subject, instead.

  “I don’t like the new girl,” I said. “She bugs me.” My hand reached for the Zingers box again.

  “Leah? I thought you guys would hit it off, since you both hail from Oregon.” He stretched out the last syllable of the word, making it sound like Or-eh-gone.

  “Another good reason to stay out of Or-eh-gun,” I corrected him, pushing my cart in the direction of the checkout stand. “There are a lot of Leah-types there.”

  “I’m not sure what a Leah-type is, but she seems okay. I think she may even be gifted.”

  I stopped the cart. “She’s not gifted! She’s boring! She doesn’t do anything except run around kissing your butt.”

  “Well, I can’t count on you to do that,” Michael said, spreading one of his hands and grinning. He stared at me, leaning against his shopping cart, smiling until I relaxed.

  The pendulum had swung, and though I was angry with him for wanting me to go home to Dark Root, and for not agreeing with me about Leah, I loved him, and I smiled back.

  In the last few months, as more and more members left Woodhaven, Michael’s spirit, once dynamic and commanding, had begun to fade. He was quieter now, less inclined to spar with me when we disagreed. His interest in the things he loved––reading, walking, praying––had waned. He spent his free time alone, worrying endlessly about ‘the end.’ Not the real end he had once prophesied––that beautiful end that would transform all of us into dazzling rays of light before a grand ascension into the heavens––but the end of something else.

  This was the first real grin I had seen from him in a long time. I fumbled for something to say but he rescued me.

  “Don’t worry, darling,” he said. “Leah might be gifted, but you are special. You are the most special girl I have ever met.”

  “For the first time in a long time,” I said, still smiling. “We agree on something.”

  Michael removed a wad of money from his wallet and began counting it out by twenties.

  “But I need you at one-hundred percent,” he said. “Lately, you seem...disengaged. I think its hurting morale. Woodhaven might be mine in name, but you are the backbone. I need you to get back to the basics. Meditate more. Stop filling your body with crap.” He pointed his chin towards my Zingers. “...Make friends with the new recruits.”

  “You know I don’t do well with strangers.”

  “They are only strangers until you get to know them,” he said. “Then they become...what’s that magic word again?” He slanted his lips in a sideways smile, toying with me like he was a birthday magician about to pull a quarter from my ear.

  “I will never be friends with Leah.”

  “She’s not the only new member. The younger ones need to meet you. Show them how special you are. Let them see the power of God. You can do that, Maggie. My little Maggie Magic, remember?”

  “I can’t turn things on and off at will.”

  I stopped the cart, my face warming. He had no idea what was involved in it, what currents I needed to pull from. If I didn’t know, he sure as hell didn’t.

  “You used to be able to.”

  “It comes and goes. I can’t control it.”

  “Clearing your mind and centering would help.” Michael reached into his front shirt pocket and pulled out a shiny glass object on a long brown cord. He took my right hand and placed the object in my palm. “Take this. It will help.”

  I furrowed my brow. “Your crystal? Why?”

  “You need the help. Please.”

  I ran my fingers over the crystal, feeling its long smooth edges that came to an abrupt point. “I don’t need any help, Michael. I can still pull it out when it matters.”

  Michael sighed, searching for the right words. “Flickering light bulbs and setting off fire alarms? Cheap parlor tricks, Mags. We need more than that. You are capable of more than that. You are capable of great things.”

  I felt the heat well up inside of me. “I’m trying, Michael!”

  I was about to lob the crystal back at him when the music on the loudspeaker was suddenly replaced by loud, crackling static.

  Michael’s face lit up. “Maggie Magic. See? The crystal is helping already. That’s the most I’ve seen from you in a long time.”

  I stared at the crystal, letting its energy warm my hands.

  My mother was a witch––a coven leader, at that. I had been raised to believe in magic. I also believed in coincidences, however. Static over the radio was not an indication that there were other forces at work. But Michael would believe what he wanted to believe, and if it made him happy I could go along with it. For now.

  I put the cord around my neck and tucked the crystal under my T-shirt, feeling it dangle between the gap of my small breasts. I walked, in a daze, to the checkout line with Michael tailing closely behind.

  “Maybe if you went home you’d get some perspective on things,” Michael said as the cashier scanned our groceries.

  I glanced at a woman’s magazine and a smiling jack-o-lantern stared back at me. Halloween would be here shortly. My favorite holiday and one of the few things I missed most about the outside world. My hometown’s tourist season revolved around Halloween and we spent the entire year preparing for October.

  I flipped through the pages of the magazine as Michael slid our groceries onto the conveyor belt. I could buy it and he probably wouldn’t say a word, but when he stuffed the cash back into his wallet and wrote a check instead, I changed my mind.

  “I don’t need perspective,” I said, pushing my cart towards the van.

  Michael didn’t hear me.

  He was talking to the bag girl about the glories of God and the joys of communal life. “The only man you’ll be working for at Woodhaven is the big one,” he told her.

  I unloaded the groceries while he finished his pitch.

  “Any luck?” I asked, as we climbed inside. “Will she be joining our loving cult?”

  “Maggie, you know I hate that word. It makes us sound weird.”

  “I know, but it’s funny.”

  “To answer your question, no, she will not be joining us.” He sighed, buckling up. “It’s hard these days, unless you have a website.”

  I laughed and started up the engine.

  “Let me think about it, Michael,” I said. “I know you’d like to think me leaving Dark Root was entirely because of you, but there were other reasons.” I stared out the window, watching as mothers and their children filed inside Grocery World.

  My life at Woodhaven wasn’t ideal, but I was free here.

  As free as I could be, anyway.

  “I wished I had been given another chance to see my family,” he said. His fingers clawed at his knee as he struggled to keep his voice steady.

  “Yeah,” was all I could say.

  “We need you, Mags. Go see your family and come back stronger and recharged. If you can’t get it together, Woodhaven isn’t going to last much longer.”

  I thought about his words as I drove us home.

  Two: Stairway to Heaven

  My mother has a disdain for warlocks.

  Though she admits they have some power, she argues that a warlock’s capabilities
will never match the creative, life-giving magic of his female counterpart. In order for a warlock to balance this upset in the spiritual scales, he must siphon energy from a woman, typically through sex.

  A nice girl will do, for a while, but if her life force is weak she may crumble under the frequency of his need.

  Bad girls provide him with a stronger manna but it can be a tainted energy, which may eventually destroy them both.

  A dark warlock will continue down this path, seizing small bites of power through sexual vampirism, yet never knowing real power of his own. An enlightened warlock, however, will eventually seek out a more powerful woman––a witch.

  It is through her that he will learn to submit, to both take and give, and consequently come into the full powers of his birthright.

  Though the word warlock was banished from my vernacular soon after Michael recruited me––there are no witches and warlocks Maggie, just energies, male and female, yin and yang––old lessons die hard, and the message remains the same.

  Men need women to accomplish great things.

  And so I waited––perched restlessly in the window seat of my bedroom––for Michael to come for me.

  Time moved miserably slow.

  I fiddled my thumbs and tapped my bare feet against the bamboo floor.

  Where was he?

  It was our Fall Revival, and Michael always spent the hour before each session with me, making love and going over his speech as he got dressed.

  Then we’d make our way out to the assembly room––a converted grange hall––across the property. Arms intertwined, we’d enter the auditorium, finding our seats at the front of the room, the Prophet and Prophetess of Woodhaven. In the years since we had founded Woodhaven, the routine had always been the same; yet tonight, I sat alone, watching the sun go down and the shadows in my room grown longer.

  I considered looking for him, but the thought of Leah’s smug, rodent face asking me if everything was ‘okay’ as I frantically searched for my boyfriend kept me in my room.

  I slid from my window seat onto the floor, pushing my back against the wall and wrapping my arms around my knees. I had never been good at meditation––sitting still for long periods of time without having interesting thoughts was difficult––but Michael claimed it led to inner peace.