The levitation game, p.26
The Levitation Game, page 26
Indeed, Owletta’s enormous, owl-like, clear-seeing eyes were her namesake. Her mother knew her daughter would have the power of clairvoyance as soon as she kissed Owletta’s red, blotchy cheeks for the first time. Now, Owletta’s skin was the color of bronze, her eyes as black as coal.
Owletta stared at the inscription across Phineas’ stone grimoire. There was no mention of her grandmother, no birthdate, death date, or anything. It was as if her ancestor had never existed. The family assumed the woman had died in childbirth or ran away. The family mystery had proliferated for generations. Owletta possessed the power of clairvoyance but couldn’t uncover the truth of her past. It was almost as if Gaia was hiding it. The trees must know. She thought wistfully, looking up to survey the treetop.
A sigh escaped her lips, and she slipped free from Willow’s grasp to enter the plot, leaning to place the ern near her grandfather’s gravestone. The coven followed, with each member carrying an offering for Owletta’s mother.
Nettle approached first, buckling her heavy frame and placing her bundle amidst the stone bowl of leaves. “Mugwort for safe travels,” she said, rising and expelling air in a gush.
Willow reached into the pocket of her red jacket and placed a tiny stone atop Phineas’ granite grimoire. “A moonstone to protect you during your journey to the Summerlands,” she stated, backing away.
Wren wiped a tear from her cheek and pulled something white from her purse. She walked to the corner of the plot where an oak tree grew just beyond the gate. “Birch bark for new beginnings,” she stated, placing the bark against the iron gate.
Finally, Owletta withdrew an object from her pocket. She stepped before her grandfather’s grimoire and placed a small stone on top. “Bloodstone to connect our hearts forever,” she whispered.
Bending, she lifted the ern, opened it, and cupped a handful of her mother’s ashes, a fresh tear dripping into the mix. She sprinkled the handful over the plot like she was seasoning a stew. Traditional burial was terrible for the environment—this a good witch knew. Still, it was her mother’s wish to disperse to the ground of her ancestors. Owletta replaced the lid, retaining the remainder of the ashes for Botany Bay, her mother’s favorite place in the world: a South Carolina beach covered in driftwood sentinels and oyster shells.
Owletta cleared her throat; the others stopped whispering and fumbling, listening. “All hail and blessed be. The cycle is complete. Mother Earth, embrace Orietta back into your loving arms. My mother’s work is complete. You, Mother Earth, are the origin of our life and power. Be Orietta’s new home and protector.”
Cold air drifted across Owletta’s face, and she tightened her coat. Just then, the granite owl atop the grimoire shifted in and out of focus. Owletta inhaled sharply, watching the wings flap as if taking flight. Seconds passed, and all was still. “Did you see that?” asked Owletta, turning to the group.
“See what?” asked Nettle.
“I only saw a squirrel jump from the oak tree,” said Wren.
“I think I saw someone down by the river—a man,” said Willow.
“You’re always seeing a man!” admonished Nettle.
Willow stamped her foot and crossed her arms, leering at Nettle. Owletta realized she must have seen something from another dimension—or something else. A shiver trickled down her spine, but it wasn’t from the cold.
Nettle
Nettle paused outside the iron gate, repositioning the small barrel cactus wedged under her arm, letting go of her suitcase with the other. The Gaston house was different than she expected: four stories of dark, slate-colored brick, with a circular turret in the middle and an off-kilter double balcony that clung to the left side of the house like false teeth. Nettle tilted her head and pushed her tongue against the roof of her mouth. Indeed, the place was prettier than the coven’s New York City walk-up—a skinny, treeless apartment smushed between old buildings. Nettle always disliked the low light and bad energy in New York. Still, this house was foreboding and irregular, unbalanced.
A rabbit jumped from a bush by the gate, startling her. Nettle smiled and opened the gate, pulling her suitcase up the sidewalk. She clumped up the cement steps, letting go of her bag and awkwardly digging into her purse for the key. Across the double wooden doors was a small plaque with the date: 1868. Old—maybe too old.
Old houses store secrets.
A feeling of dread settled around Nettle’s heart as she rattled the skeleton key inside the old lock. She wished, suddenly, that the rest of the coven was here instead of back in New York, settling the coven’s affairs and preparing for the move South.
Nettle opened the door, peeking inside the entry. The house smelled like patchouli and dirty socks. Entering a grand foyer, she swiveled, glancing right, into a dark living room, opposite, into a dining room, and straight ahead, up an imposing stairway. Above her head, an ornate chandelier dangled like a metal octopus. Swiftly, her gaze fell on a gnarly, handmade broom wedged near the front door. Nettle grunted.
She discarded her suitcase, grabbed the broom, veered into the dining room, and placed her cactus on a long wooden table. Nettle continued into the kitchen, her eyes circling the room and stopping on a side door. Nettle carried the broom across the room, unlocked the door with a twist of her fingers, and threw the broom into the garden. “There,” she said, standing in the doorway, smacking her hands together as if shaking off crumbs. “Cliché,” she muttered under her breath.
She took a moment to appraise her new yard. It was vast and sprawling. The coven could grow enough vegetables and plants, herbs, and flowers to supplement the new store that Nettle would rent on Bull Street while the rest of the coven traveled from New York. Nettle looked around wistfully, feeling a pang of jealousy that caused her to burp. She tasted garlic, and she hadn’t eaten any.
With a shoulder shrug, she turned to appraise her new kitchen. A copper kettle sat on the gas stove, ready to make tea. There was an enormous double refrigerator, a new dishwasher, and a deep white porcelain sink with a few dirty dishes left over from the prefuneral gathering of Owletta’s extended family and Orietta’s witchy friends. Nettle hadn’t attended the life celebration. As always, she was the odd witch out—who stayed behind, fulfilling online orders for their business: Global Witchery.
Nettle stood straighter, thinking about the brand she had started independently, all on her own. Owletta might be the supreme, for now, but Nettle kept the coven in the black—literally. Nettle gave her shirt a firm tug, turning her attention to the cupboards; they looked original, caked with layers of grey paint, old and bubbly. Nettle moved closer to the sink, looking out the window to the backyard. She stared at a giant fountain, sitting silent, leaves filling the basin. Hearing water, Nettle leaned in, looking closer; the spray was dry. Nettle turned; it wasn’t water she was hearing; it was a rattle, like a snake, somewhere inside the house.
Nettle returned to the dining room but stopped, listening, with her eyes plumbing the baseboards. She heard cars on Gaston Street and voices somewhere outside, but no snakes. Grabbing her suitcase, she ascended the stairs, stopping on the second-floor landing to listen again—nothing.
She left her suitcase on the landing and went from room to room, searching high and low. There was no hissing or rattling or snakes. However, she discovered a bedroom with a large attached, black and white tiled bathroom that suited her tastes. It faced north, overlooking Gaston Street and a row of picture-perfect mansions with wise old trees.
Nettle retrieved her suitcase and unpacked, pushing foreign clothes aside and hanging her dresses in the tiny closet. After a few minutes, she placed her lingerie in an antique dresser with an oval mirror. There were another woman’s socks and sundries inside several drawers. Nettle pulled those items out and put them on the bed for later disposal. She breathed deep, tasting lavender and yarrow—boundaries. This space was hers now; she looked around and smiled. Yes, this was the right room; her power of clairgustance—clear tasting—had never let her down. Again, Nettle smacked her lips and entered the bathroom, kneeling with a grunt over the massive clawfoot bathtub. She opened the tap and returned to the bedroom. There, she gathered the appropriate herbal sachet from her suitcase: cedar to block unwelcome energy, lavender for peace, sage for clearing and protecting, and the mother of them all, mugwort, for everything else.
Returning to the bathroom, she dimmed the lights, lit the well-used candles that surrounded the tub, undressed, and settled into the tub with a gentle splash. Nettle closed her eyes and sighed.
Nettle lifted her head from the pillow; she heard it again, an ominous rattle, a crescendo that trailed into a few ticking beats. The sound was coming from downstairs; she was sure of it. Blinking the sleep away, she arose from her nap, clumsily slipping from the high bed and wrapping her naked body in a fuzzy green robe. Her feet whispered down the hall and descended the stairs. At the bottom, she investigated the living room. Night had fallen, and someone had drawn the curtains; it was dark, but clearly, a human silhouette was sitting in a chair by the fireplace. Her heart thumped—a relative, perhaps? Nettle fumbled along the wall, flipping the light switch and gasping. She tightened the belt of her robe.
“Who are you? How did you get in here?” asked Nettle, alarm polishing her words.
The man recrossed his legs and flashed a seductive smile. “I’m a friend of Orietta’s, and I have a key,” he purred, holding up a tarnished silver key and fidgeting with a ring on his pinky finger.
Nettle couldn’t conjure the right words. She stared at his mouth, almost certain she’d seen a forked tongue while he talked. Nettle pinched the robe tighter over her breasts, contemplating her next move. The stranger shouldn’t be here, but she wasn’t sure what to do, and something about him intrigued her. Her eyes darted; she crossed her arms, appraising his purple suit and boldly striped socks. The weird man also wore a paisley tie and a black bowler hat, complete with a large purple feather. He looked rather odd and comical, like a circus barker. A half smile passed her lips.
“The life celebration was three days ago,” Nettle finally muttered.
“I’m not here for that. I’m here to talk to you,” said the man with a grin.
Nettle laughed morbidly; she couldn’t help herself. The situation was so bizarre. She shook her head. “You don’t even know me,” she said.
“I like your dimples. I’m partial to blonds, especially meaty blonds,” the man said, flicking a tongue across thin lips.
Nettle inhaled, her nervous smile vanishing. “What’s your name? You really shouldn’t be here….” Her voice stopped when she heard a sound behind her back, like swishing, brushing, or something else. She turned, discovering the broom she had thrown into the garden. Now, the thing was animated, sweeping the dining room all on its own. The broom zigged into corners, zagged back and forth, twirling up a pile of dust until it stopped. Then it stood like a statue as if waiting for further instructions. Nettle swiveled with a racing heart. “What’s your name?” she asked in a firm, hushed voice.
“Azrael,” he stated, standing, moving towards her, and offering her his hand.
Nettle stepped back but shook the man’s hand anyway, regretting it immediately. Was this man a witch? Even if he was, no witch was capable of anything like the spell she’d just seen—it was on a different level entirely. It was magic, pure magic. Nettle opened her mouth to speak, but the man hushed her with his fingertips pushed gently against her lips.
Azrael arched an eyebrow, doffed his cap, and headed toward the front door, but then he stopped and turned. “I’ll be seeing you. Oh, be sure to look for Phineas’ grimoire. It’s hidden in Sparrow’s room, in the floorboards. You’ll find it; they’re loose—the boards. Good day Nettle,” said Azrael with a nod and a swish of his seemingly forked tongue.
Nettle’s feet felt cold and glued to the floor. She watched the front door in a trance, sure that Azrael had vanished instead of actually opening the door and departing. She rushed to peer out the front window, pulling the curtains aside. But she couldn’t see the man anywhere. She ran barefoot out the front door, up the sidewalk, to the gate. Azrael was gone. Nettle stood at the front entrance, gripping the pointy metal with sweaty hands, looking up and down the dark sidewalk.
She tasted garlic. “Yuck,” she spat.
Phineas Wainwright: Savannah, Georgia, 1879
Phineas circled the dining table nine times, stopping to check his pulse; it ran fast. The room was eerily quiet, the only sound a sporadic crackle emanating from the fireplace. He could almost hear the rush of blood flowing through his veins.
Silence suffocated him while his fingers traced the filagree atop a chair at his hip. The streetlamps lining Gaston Street flickered and blurred before his eyes; he rubbed his temple as if removing a stubborn stain from his skin. “There is no light bright enough to illuminate my dark, dank soul,” he whispered.
Phineas hurried to the circular windows before him, snapping the draperies shut while still holding the fabric taut between his fingers. He leaned forward, burrowing his face into the plush velvet, weeping, his shoulders shaking in fits and starts.
Then he straightened as if electrocuted, listening to the swish of skirts behind his back. He turned to find Ottilie standing in the doorway, holding a silver candlestick, the flame guttering and sending shadows across her face. She wore a dress of peach blossom silk, her plump bosom tipping over the tight bodice, dusky skin glowing in the firelight.
The woman surveyed the dining table, clutching her skirt with white knuckles and shaking her head in denial. Phineas stumbled towards her, sobbing openly now. Ottilie grasped his cheeks and kissed his tears away, rubbing a hand over his mouth. With both hands, she opened the tiny oyster buttons lining his shirt, ripping the shirt from his chest and throwing it to the floor.
Phineas twisted her towards the wall and carefully needled the silk fabric buttons lining her back. He unpeeled each button until the peach dress fell to the floor in a heap of flounces and trim. Gently, he rubbed her bare shoulders and kissed her right and left before grabbing them with firm hands. “Tell me, Ottilie. Have I redeemed myself for the day I purchased you on Butler Island?”
Ottilie’s shoulders stiffened, and she emitted a hiccupping gasp but didn’t say a word. Slowly, she removed her skeleton petticoat, set it aside like a baby oak tree, and stripped from her chemise and undergarments until she was skyclad, glistening in the candlelight. Ottilie lingered with her back to Phineas, staring at her portrait on the wall, painted just six months ago by the best artist in Georgia. Slowly, she shifted her feet, facing her lover.
Phineas stepped from his trousers and removed his undergarments, throwing them aside. The duo stared at each other in the flickering light, and time seemed to stop. After a few pregnant seconds, he moved to the buffet, grabbing the fluffy capelets he’d fashioned from two ethereal barn owls: the bird’s heart-shaped, curious faces perfectly matched Ottilie’s own.
Phineas fastened a small capelet to her shoulders, then tied an oversized, prickly cape of feathers around his neck. He picked up a narrow crown crafted from soft, downy pinfeathers and placed it on Ottilie’s head. They held hands, stepping over the pile of salt, circling the dining table, and sitting side by side, naked except for their feathery adornments.
Spread across the table were dozens of flickering white candles and tiny piles of herbs, bowls of water and oil, pumice, dried datura blossoms, and other, more unseemly curiosities. In the center of the table, Phineas’ handwritten grimoire sat splayed like a shrine.
Phineas grabbed a dainty silver spoon and scooped up a miniature owl heart from a tiny bowl, swallowing it whole. Ottilie stared at her bowl in horror, swallowing nothing but air. “It will be the gallows if you don’t eat it, Ottilie,” he urged.
Ottilie plopped the tiny heart on her tongue and covered her mouth, chewing with her eyes squeezed tight. She grabbed his hand for support.
Above the dining room, the gurgling sounds of an infant beckoned. Ottilie rose from her seat; Phineas held her hand firm.
“It’s too late, Ottilie. We’ve said our goodbyes. I’ve arranged for Mrs. McAvoy to enter through the kitchen before the morning is nigh. All will be well with our little Sparrow.”
Ottilie stared stoically at the brick fireplace against the far wall, tears welling under her lids. Phineas knew each cry was like a knife to her heart.
“Sparrow, my dear, sweet girl,” Ottilie murmured.
They drank the blood from their crystal goblets.
“Proteus, hear our prayer!” Phineas boomed, gulping his glass and slamming it to the table. Phineas closed his eyes, speaking to the room:
Feathers, feathers, light as air
Grant us wings; lift us there
Feathers, feathers, strong like bone
We want the sky to be our home
Feathers, feathers, never break
We leave our flesh and feathers make
Earth at rest
Air our support
Beak in song
Wings, wings, we wish to fly
Our souls will only belong to sky
Proteus, Proteus, hear our prayer
Shift us higher this night
Let us take to the air
Silent as an owl
Strong as an eagle
Efficient as a condor
Endurance of an albatross
The agility of a hummingbird
Speed of a falcon
Wings, wings, come to me
So mote it be
Ottilie joined the chant.
The duo repeated the mantra in the dark room, over and over, dark shadows dancing on the walls. Across the room, the fireplace roared into an open flame, unbidden. Phineas could feel the heat on his bare skin. “The devil is talking,” Phineas whispered, his voice quivering.
