Witch's Windsong, Page 2

  She was glad she’d checked, for a moment later, a gale blew from the north and scattered the image, as if to steal it from her. The thief had failed; Unole had clutched the omen deep within her heart.

  The north wind whipped and thrashed like a cyclone around the willow. Was it winter torturing the first flower? Or was it death, outraged that Unole had claimed her omen and the will to flourish? The willow’s branches tangled. Across the stream, the sycamore’s clattered. Her legs wobbled, and the fire of weakness threatened her core.

  She stepped back, using the willow’s trunk to bolster her quavering spine. She took a deep breath to calm her mind and attempt to read the wind—her special gift she’d spent years honing. When she reached age thirteen, this practice culminated in the revealing of her spirit name, Unole, at her Naming Ceremony. Despite her skill, she hadn’t made a reading in months. Could she, with her body now so frail? A ripple of apprehension shuddered through her first failure.

  She clamped her hands onto the trunk and focused. Her legs trembled uncontrollably, more than from the remnants of her illness. She searched in all directions for the source of the invasive blast. Her nerves fired too fast and numbness mounted, rising into her body and threatening to obliterate her reading. She locked her jaw, holding back the assault. The fierce north wind coveted secrets it didn’t want her to know. She clung tighter to the willow, digging her nails into the bark. Pressing her head against the steadfast willow, she lifted a defiant gaze to the sky.

  Her reading took shape as a premonition. Far upstream, a young man approached the mother of her own willow. The same north wind crusted his eyelids with ice and froze the life-giving air within his lungs, while it was abducting who he loved most. She searched her thoughts for an image of the endangered one, but it wouldn’t appear. The man would soon experience panic and fear so excruciating that Unole could already smell its initial tang sweeping through the water corridor.

  She had no time to dwell on the reading or her analysis; she must warn him of the coming peril.

  She braced the backs of her legs against the willow. The tree’s limbs swept past each other playing shrill, staccato notes, alerting its mother. Unole gulped a lungful of air. With arms raised upstream, it sputtered out of her chest with a thin gasp, creating her own wind. The illness confounded her gift; head down, defeated, she slumped. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, then opened them to the willow’s stars shining brighter. They illuminated the tiny windflower standing tall before her. Both reminded her to be strong.

  She filled her lungs again and armed the exhale with assertive notes of her voice to gain his attention. This time, it sailed under her direction. She quickly sent another breath, propelling the first closer to the man. With each inhale, her chest continued to expand, loosening the stiffness of created by her illness.

  Winter from the north pummeled her with a torrent of icy blasts.

  Breath after breath sent up the corridor, Unole’s wind battled the onslaught. She twisted her wrists and skimmed her gusts over and around the opposition.

  The north wind stung her nostrils with anger, ready to spark into rage. The rancid stench of its fury smelled familiar but not one she could identify. And the man’s fear smelled of someone she’d known, but who? The two anguished souls bent and clashed, racing southbound and colliding with brutal force against her own. The acidic odor of the man’s bleak future choked her throat; his pain would soon be realized—but it was hers now. She clutched her churning stomach, unable to turn away from a battle which didn’t seem to involve her. Why was she compelled to help him? The answer evaded her.

  The north wind shrouded the emotions associated with its stink, rendering her unable to read what consequence the struggle would yield. Still, Unole tasted the rot of its deception. Her choice was easy: she couldn’t abandon the man.

  Past the burning in her lungs, she sucked up air and pounded the waterway with her wind. Gusts so strong, they would blow from Carolina through the valleys and across the Appalachians. While she braced against her willow ally, other trees along the streams and rivers swayed, amplifying her song, as if the universe was rhythm. Her rhythm.

  Feet anchored by the willow’s roots, she leaned over the bank. At this angle, she had better projection. Unleashing more notes, she used her fingers to spin them into the words he needed to hear: a plea to keep safe.

  With her body exposed, the whirling gusts stung her eyes, knotted her hair, and its wrath agitated the pit of her stomach. She doubled over and retched. Before she looked up, the north wind halted its attack. She dropped to sit on the bank, head reeling.

  The air lay calm with no odor or taste, other than the clean, fresh promise of spring. As though what she’d witnessed and fought against had never happened. Had it? Her legs shook as proof. Was that from the battle? Or merely a remnant of ill health, from overdoing without the constraints of her elogi—something she’d pay double for when she arrived at home?

  At Unole’s feet stood the tiny windflower. But now, a second bud had curled its white lips upward as if to open. “What do you know that I don’t? Can you tell me?” she asked it. When the answer remained unclear, she glanced in the direction the bud reached. There, in the sky, a band of millions of stars twinkled down on her.

  She took a deep breath and stared at the wonder of the Milky Way. How is this possible? It shouldn’t be visible for months.

  Her mind swam through the stream of stars, drunk on the unbridled energy of the evening. The legend of the Black God glimmered in her thoughts. She heard her father—Shaman Chuquilatague’s raspy, deep voice telling the favorite tale during a summer evening years ago:

  The great Black God was about to take his seat at the dinner table when Coyote approached and asked, “Why are you taking a break? There is more to do.”

  “See for yourself what has been done, all the constellations I have created,” said Black God with a note of annoyance in his words. Ignoring Coyote, the god sat and crossed his legs beneath him. In his usual manner, he began to position his pouch beneath one foot for safekeeping.

  But Coyote, being impatient and angry at being rebuked, zipped under the chair and snatched the bag before Black God could get his foot in place. Coyote then emptied out all the stars and blew them across the sky.

  Outraged, Black God refused to light those scattered stars, and today they remain dimmer than their cousins. Stars placed in the sky by Black God have names, and those of the Milky Way are known to us only as Coyote Stars.

  But tonight, the Coyote Stars twinkled brightly upon Unole—an amazing sight. Coyote was communicating with her. But was this one of the trickster’s pranks? Or did he really need her? As she watched, his stars transformed into the faces of tribespeople who’d listened to her father’s teaching that evening years ago. Sitting around the fire beside her mother, Unole, barely fifteen, giggled with her girlfriends. She missed her mother, who passed the following year. But her heart warmed at the sight of many other stars, her tribespeople, smiling with reverence at her father.

  A gasp escaped her lips—also present was someone she couldn’t forget, Keir Sheridan, her father’s summer apprentice. Her first crush. She was an awkward, gangly girl, nothing but spindly limbs, and he’d probably forgotten all about her. She sighed, envisioning the clear blue of his eyes, his neatly cropped black hair, his sensitivity, and friendly smile. In the sky circle, Keir sat beside his animal companion Waapake—a coyote.

  The connection sparked: the man upstream was Keir, panicking over danger to Waapake, who appealed to his ancestral god, Coyote, for help. Each had called for help, and she had overheard their pleas. But why? What could she do, and from so far away? Frustration and fire roiled along her nerves. Unblinking, she stared at the stellar display, desperate for another answer that did not come.

  She rubbed her aching neck and glanced down to view a different spectacle in the stream’s mirror. Reflected there was a wild wind woman dressed in a white sheath beaded with starlight. Coyo
te Stars twinkled from within dewdrops on the willow’s branches. Wind-knots tangled her blue-black hair, and her face glowed from within—a goddess sent to tell the world’s future and weave magic into dreams.

  Chapter Three: Guilt

  Along the route home, Keir scavenged the dark roadsides and woodlots for the gleam of Waapake’s bright yellow eyes. Approaching the house, dread engulfed Keir. He directed his Packard into the driveway and scanned the property. Determined to see a glimpse of the coyote, he almost missed the bend toward the garage. At the last moment, he swerved the sedan and slammed on the brakes. The wide white-wall tires chucked gravel and ice chunks at the garden’s picket fence, before skidding to a halt. He fixed on the logs and buckets strewn around the yard, playthings that Waapake favored—had they been recently moved? His heart raced, searing with hope. Yet the coyote never trotted to Keir’s car door with his tongue dangling and tail wagging.

  Maybe Waapake waited for him at the house, injured. Keir bolted from the car and hurried around the corner of the garage toward the back porch. Only a fresh glaze of ice on the steps and the mocking from a solitary bird, a rare white crow flying out from the apple tree, greeted him. Its frozen perch rebounded and cracked the twig’s icy coating, a slight sound but enough to ring loud against the morning’s perfect stillness. It struck Keir how the vicious creek wind never occurred here.

  A frozen mist encroached upon the air, advancing on low-hanging clouds from the woods behind the lawn. The crunch of his hiking boots freed winter-weary blades of grass from their imprisonment; he wished he could rid the Hollow of winter’s last claws as easily. He debated whether the ravine’s wind contained magic that prevented Waapake from returning home. Or had he fallen through thin ice over the creek? Keir’s blood and bone intuited that truth, but the logic failed to manifest.

  While striving to comprehend, pressure pushed against his eardrums. He swallowed, trying to equalize but discovered the force was external. From the approaching mist? He spun, noticing the usual pale gray of dawn at the tree line, but not the typical wildlife that roamed at daybreak. No cardinals or titmice cracked seed at his feeder, no rodents skittered through the forest brambles. Even the morning breeze was absent, missing its cue of rising air temperature. What restraint had spread such silence? The close dampness usurped his lungs, forcing him to over-expand his chest to breathe. He strode around the house, searching. His heart banged against his ribcage, competing with his lungs for space.

  The evil had followed him.

  Panic hit, and his heartbeat ratcheted faster. “Waapake! Where are you?” he bellowed, then released an ear-splitting whistle. In zig-zag sweeps, he traversed the property, yelling and whistling for the coyote: through the orchard in the side lawn, across the stubble of a would-be garden, and into the deep ditch on the other side of the road.

  He retraced his steps along the side of the house, where the root cellar met the foundation. It brought back a memory of Waapake when he was a pup, often hiding there to surprise Keir. He toed aside wet leaves packed into the nook. A nest of bleary-eyed field mice scuttled to the brick wall. He bent to brush leaves from his jeans and found the cellar door’s latch unset and the pin missing—had Waapake taken cover there?

  Keir opened one of the double doors, descended part way, and flicked on the light. Nothing stirred. “C’mon, Waapake. No time for games. Show yourself.” His voice rattled with false hope. The contents of dust, apples, and his meager harvest of root vegetables lay undisturbed. Haunted by happier memories, he left and secured the door.

  Forcing out frustration with a loud exhale, he returned to the garage and heaved the wooden door open across its track to one side. Remaining hopeful, he checked corners and behind stacked lumber and tools before driving his car in.

  Again at the back porch, he paused, reluctant to go inside and put more distance between him and his coyote familiar. He reminded himself that Waapake often ventured into the woods alone, howling or scratching at the door to be let in. Pressing upon Keir and choking all of nature’s movements, the unearthly force paralyzed that logic. He trembled as the cold damp seeped through his quilted parka, though a film of sweat beaded under the band of his knit cap.

  A rivulet down his spine roused him—how long had he stood there, mind and body suspended? The yellowing of dawn marked the passage of time—underscored that night had ended with Waapake still missing.

  Keir’s fingers on the doorknob triggered a mantra: He’s fine and will be home soon. With each boot and garment Keir tossed off in the mudroom, he repeated the assurance.

  At the doorway to the wide country kitchen, the wall phone captured his attention, although he didn’t want to bother his friends for help.

  Waapake will be home soon. With every step, Keir recited the mantra so he might reach the sitting room without succumbing to his escalating fear.

  What if he’s injured? No. He’s fine and will be home soon. He reassured himself. Two more steps and Keir reached the center prep table, where he spread open palms over the top’s cool, white tiles. In stark contrast to the limed oak cabinets, the black phone on the far wall loomed large, within arm’s reach of the doorway to the next room.

  What if he can’t get back? Keir took a wide stride, but his ankle wobbled.

  What if he’s dead? Keir denied the thought, though an image of his father’s white, embalmed face resting on a satin pillow rose unbidden. Forcing himself to forget the vision, Keir repeated the mantra and lurched to the next counter. He yanked the receiver off and dialed Logan’s number.

  ***

  Keir waited at the back door for the two cars that pulled into his driveway at eight-thirty.

  Rowe’s black Studebaker glided past—long, black, and sleek—and parked near the garage. As he and his girlfriend Jancie stepped out, Logan’s Nash sedan barreled to a stop. Dried salt and road grime camouflaged much of its forest-green paint; Logan, the new high priest of Coon Hollow Coven, rarely had time to tend to his car or appearance since his appointment.

  The swing of a white-blonde braid rounding his car was a common sight. His girlfriend Aggie had quickly learned that spending time with Logan often meant accompanying him on business. No one minded since she’d been instrumental in ferreting out witches who conducted black magic at last October’s Samhain.

  Logan looked like the community’s savior he’d become after claiming the position from a long line of malevolent Tabards. An aura illuminated his golden curls in the angled morning light. Keir was proud of his friend’s accomplishments; Logan made things happen and would coordinate an extensive search for Waapake. Holding a quilted coat under one arm, Logan planted a misshapen gray fedora on his head and dug hands into the pockets of his rumpled suit coat. He hauled his lanky frame next to Rowe, who served as one of the high priest’s eight Coven Council members.

  In contrast, Rowe stood tall with his broad shoulders relaxed. His dark brown hair hung in a tidy ponytail past the fine camelhair overcoat’s collar. His composure always soothed Keir’s nerves like a balm. While both men wore the Thirties-style double-breasted suits dictated by coven dress code, their hiking boots affirmed their commitment to finding Waapake. By way of greeting to Keir, Rowe touched the brim of his black fedora perched jauntily over one eye and offered a gloved hand to Jancie as she navigated the ice-covered walk.

  Neither girlfriend chose to follow the specifications for female coven members. Dressed for the woods, the women wore jeans, hiking boots, and thick parkas. Jancie’s jeans clung to every curve, while Aggie’s had a looser fit like what farmers wore. Keir still hadn’t grown accustomed to their casual style; although locals, their witchcraft traced to the New Wish coven several hours south where Indiana met the Ohio River. Some Coon Hollow families insisted the way of life here needed to remain fixed according to what existed at the time of founding. They believed breaking tradition would have a negative effect on Coon Hollow’s unique witchcraft. Logan and Rowe opposed that outdated thinking and Keir agreed—tonight
, he needed every type of magical insight available to find his coyote.

  A deep breath loosened Keir’s lungs and admitted hope and trust; the two men had been his closest childhood buddies. He held the door open. “Thanks for coming so early.” The group filed into the mudroom, but no one removed outerwear or stepped farther inside.

  “No problem.” Logan blew on his cupped hands, then pulled a pen and notebook from the inner pocket of his suit.

  Rowe pointed his square chin toward the pad. “Are we here on official Coven Council business? Do you want me to take notes, too?”

  Logan shook his head. “I’ve got it. It’s become routine; seems like the only time I’m not high priest is while I sleep.”

  A laugh escaped Aggie’s lips. “Wrong—you sometimes argue with people while you’re asleep.”

  Logan shrugged and flipped to a clean page. “What’s up with Waapake? Replay the details.”

  “We went down into Owls Tail Creek near where it bends at the fork,” Keir said. “That deep ravine.”

  Logan nodded and scribbled, more gray storm clouds gathering over his cobalt irises each time he glanced up.

  “I needed a willow branch. Out of nowhere, a wind full of dark power pressed into my lungs, disorienting me. Then Waapake disappeared. I called and searched all along the creek but didn’t find any sign of him. He’s not been back here, either.”

  Brushing strands of her long red hair aside, Jancie faced Keir. “Which direction did the wind blow? That might us give a clue.”

  “From the north.” Impatient for her response, he searched the depth and sincerity of her hazel eyes. Jancie’s magic aligned with the south wind, a trait she’d inherited from her mother, who was a New Wish witch. Though Jancie had only recently discovered her powers, Keir respected her skills—strong enough to remove Adara Tabard both from her poisonous reign as high priestess and from Coon Hollow.