“Little darts,” they said, almost in unison, “little darts. So, so sharp.”
Chapter 9
At the third recitation of “little darts,” whatever spell had animated the two bodies was exhausted through one final, foggy exhale. Peasgood’s and Hyslop’s fingers curled and clenched at the shroud. We all bowed our heads and experienced the finality of Sweetbough’s and Bellflower’s last breaths.
The glasses of hoppy ale and honey mead were empty. The napkins where the cheese and preserves had been laid out were stained plum purple and raspberry and littered with white crumbs, the offerings similarly gone, consumed.
I didn’t think the dead could eat. I was wrong.
“If Peasgood and Hyslop would please stand and join our circle,” Maritza said, the command in her voice fully present but with the undertone of compassion reserved for the mourning. The two men shuffled into the space we made for them. “Everyone, join hands and repeat after me.
“On this day,” she intoned. She paused after speaking and signaled we should repeat as one with a dip of her head.
“On this day,” we said, our voices ragged and not yet connected.
“On this day,” Maritza said again, this time with a clearer instruction in her voice for us to get our act together and shine. Or else. “We give thanks to those who rose from the dead.”
Taking a breath together, chests lifting and opening before we spoke, we answered her, “On this day, we give thanks to those who rose from the dead.”
“On this day,” she continued, “we honor the lives of Bellflower and Sweetbough, hidden folk of le clan des Vergers.”
I stumbled over the French, but the combined voices of the witches and druids rose strong, smoothing my rough spot and completing Maritza’s invocation.
Peasgood cleared his throat. “On this day,” he began, glancing at Maritza for permission to speak.
She dipped her chin. “Say what you need.”
“On this day, we vow to avenge their deaths.” Peasgood and Hyslop spoke together, emotion lacing through the words, drawing consonants and vowels tight within their throats. “On this day, we reaffirm our vows to keep safe the orchards in our trust.”
“There is a song my cousins sang when they were children, and I would like to sing it here, for them.” Peasgood glanced at us, perhaps shy about the offering. “It’s very easy to learn.”
He cleared his throat and bounced a bit, finally singing softly once, then again, a smile lighting his eyes and apple-red rising in his cheeks.
Pomme de reinette et pomme d’api
Tapis, tapis rouge
Pomme de reinette et pomme d’api
Tapis, tapis gris
By the fourth round, we were clapping hands and bouncing along. At a shared yet wordless signal, we stopped on a sustained “gris,” our fluttering hands rising in unison toward the earthen ceiling like so many little birds or flower petals caught up on a windy day.
The notes had nothing to echo against. Silence filled the space.
“Thank you,” Peasgood whispered. “Hyslop and I had hoped we could send Bellflower and Sweetbough off with a song.”
Once she released the dead, Maritza directed the three witches, me included, in post-conjuring clean up. She charged Tanner, River, and the four other men with seeing the bodies were reinterred. Before removing them from the circle, they wrapped the reunited pieces of Sweetbough and Bellflower with the shroud made from the pieces of cloth that had cloaked Maritza’s true form when she first walked up to the farmhouse.
Every time we witches left the circle, we used the north door, and every time we reentered, we stepped through the east. Maritza’s final act was to sweep her arms in a widdershins circle, over and over, until she had gathered her magic-charged particles. Once they reformed into the animated cone, she guided the cone into a pouch pulled from her bottomless purse and tugged the cords tight.
We exited the burial mound, with Kazimir stepping out last. He drew the sod-covered door toward him using magical means, pinched a handful of herbs from the pouch at his waist, and sprinkled the flakes at the threshold. Moving from the lower right up and over and ending at the lower left, he erased all signs of the door.
“What do we do now?” I asked, exhaustion flooding my legs. I tried to grab some energy from the ground, but we were still within the confines of the druids’ magical dome and my quick search again came up empty.
“I must return to my brother’s home,” said Maritza. “There is much to do.” She walked away, words meant for me floating over her shoulder. “I shall see you soon, Calliope Jones. In the meantime, locate your grimoire.” She lifted a bare arm and disappeared.
“How did she do that?” I asked.
“That’s the border between the orchard and where the magic roots into the ground to hold this place hidden,” said Kaz. “Join hands and follow me.”
We did. The same sensation of entering a different biosphere, a less temperate zone, passed across my skin. We were met by a sky littered with stars and cell phones trilling and beeping with messages. Peasgood and Hyslop were offered the cart. They declined, choosing instead to lead the return to the farmhouse.
I hung back to retie my boots. We’d raised the dead. The dead had presented us with testimony that pointed toward one man and three women, and the only candidates in my mind were Josiah, Garnet, Adelaide, and Meribah. Bellflower and Sweetbough hadn’t given us a last name, but I had been married to a Flechette and I knew flechettes were small, arrow-like darts. I had to scrub my face to erase the image of the Fae coming at the hidden folk, their glamour dropped and their nails and fingers extended into the deadly blades they had drawn at my house.
I raised my forearm to my nose and sniffed. My skin held traces of the ocean. I tested a patch with my tongue. Salt. Maybe my sweat was saltier than most. Or maybe the in-between was a place
