She placed a red-and-orange-striped candle behind the doll I’d seated in the center of the wall facing east, and a blue candle behind the doll at the southern side of the storage room, where the two interior walls jutted into the space to form a corner. Stepping to the section of the cellar farthest from the door, she snugged a yellow-and-white-striped candle into the dirt behind the doll at the west wall, and a candle of swirling browns and greens in front of the one at the north.
She scraped a match along the striker and cupped her hands around the bright flame. When the red candle’s wick accepted the light, she took it from me and began her invocation.
“Beings of the East, where the sun rises, bring light to the dark and warmth to our hearths. Help us illuminate the words.” She crouched to light the waiting candle, then stood to address the next direction. “Beings of the South, where water flows. Smooth our path and soothe our wounds. Help us cleanse the words.”
Another candle was lit, another quarter turn made. “Beings of the West, where air circulates and moves away stagnation. Help us find clarity in the words.” The wick on this candle needed coaxing. L’Runa’s waist-length braids swished across her back as she shook her head and murmured words of encouragement.
I had thought the dirt here was dead, or as near to dead as dirt got, and I startled at the tremor under my feet. L’Runa either didn’t feel it, or ignored it, and went on to finish lighting the final candle. “Beings of the North, where earth provides the ground from which we rise and to which we fall. Help us release the words.”
After, she planted the red candle roughly in the center of the cellar and straightened. She then began to stroll around the space, dropping her glance to one spot, then moving to another, as though contemplating what to plant where.
“Genevieve,” she whispered, creating a singsong chant of the syllables.
“Noémi.
“Meribah.
“Calliope.”
She reached into her tackle box, then bent to the ground again, this time in the corner of the room I most dreaded. When she stood, four tiny chairs more suited to a doll’s house were positioned in a square.
L’Runa repeated the four names. I began to sense she and I were not the only ones present. Though I couldn’t see the shapes of other beings, I didn’t need to. I felt them. I felt the weight of my longing to know more of my mother. I felt the weight of Bear’s sorrow in the dank air, and of Meribah’s confession. I felt the weight of the suffocating events of the past.
While I adjusted to the heavy cloak of memory as it sagged against my chest, a ripple passed between the dolls. I shushed my inner jumble. Picked out overlapping voices. Aunt Noémi, coming from the doll occupying the north. My mother, from the doll at the south. And Meribah, resonating from the doll at the west.
You think you’re so special.
I could cut you.
I could take her from you.
Meribah, no.
Go find your own.
She came to me.
She’s mine.
From behind me, most unsettling of all, came the terrified whisperings of a six-year-old girl. L’Runa spun in place, stared at that doll and pointed. “Calliope, bring her here, please, closer to me. The others, leave where they are.”
My legs required unfreezing before I could make myself take the few steps to the east-facing wall and take hold of the doll’s clothbound torso. The center of my chest ached to embrace the childlike figure, yet my hands refused to take in any sensation that suggested the doll had a beating heart or working lungs.
I brought her to L’Runa. The witch cradled the hand-sewn creation in her arms, cooing, stroking the button-eyed face as she moved to the far corner. Rocking side to side in a familiar, maternal gesture, she pulled each voice’s individual thread.
“Calliope. Bring your mother here and place her in a chair. Then bring Noémi, then Meribah.”
I followed L’Runa’s instructions. My bones turned into a gelatinous mess as I tuned in to the individual—and recognizable—voices as I neared each of the dolls. When I took hold of their stuffed torsos, a lifelike force pulsed through whatever L’Runa had used as stuffing.
The witch crouched near the circle of seated dolls and began to ask questions, listen for answers, at times nodding or interrupting. I stood apart. The responses tumbled around me like water over rocks. Unable to distinguish everything that was being said, I was half-grateful L’Runa wasn’t asking me to participate in a conversation I could barely follow and did not understand.
She’s water. You’re earth. You’ll stifle her.
I can teach her. She’s young. She’ll learn.
Let me have her.
You can’t do this alone. Let me help.
Let me have them.
They are mine.
There’s a price to pay.
There is always a price to pay.
She is water.
You are earth.
She is mine.
“Calliope.”
They are water. You are earth.
I can help. Please, let me help.
She is mine.
“Calli.” L’Runa waved at me and spoke over her shoulder. She’d turned Little Calliope to face toward her chest. “Do you have any pieces of your mother’s clothing, a scarf perhaps, or even a large scrap of fabric?”
I processed her question. Nodded. “Yes, in my bedroom.”
“Please go and get it. Exit the circle facing inward, do not speak once you have left, and retrace your footsteps to me. I have paused the conversation and will wait until you’ve returned.”
Again, I followed her instructions. Blinded by the bright sunshine, I hustled up the stairs and into the house, and finally exhaled when I kneeled in front of the trunk under my desk. A scarf that often fluttered at the periphery of my memories was folded and lying at the bottom. I took it and an abandoned quilting project and hightailed it back to L’Runa.
“Perfect,” she said. Pointing to the quilt, she added, “Unfold this one first and hold it open.”
I shook the sewn-together pieces and draped the squarish
