55

                                    

                                          
            
From the outside the house was dark and quiet, no signs of life. Anne was still at Hazel's with the coven. 
                          
A small flicker of relief lightened the heavy load of disappointment weighing me down. I didn't know how Anne and I would move past this, but that was one confrontation that I didn't have time for right now.
                          
The garden was lush with an abundance of life, even in November. That had struck me as odd before. 
                          
Now I knew what fed them, even the daisies were downright creepy.
                          
Stepping quick and light through the overgrown pathway, every brush of long grass and catch of bramble made me bristle and flinch.
                          
There better not be any Triffids in there, but it wouldn't altogether surprise me.
                          
As I passed it, the huge ancient tree hummed with energy; a deep satisfied buzzing noise that had the suspicious timbre of laughter.
                          
 My family's power mocking me. 
                          
Bastards.
                          
That energy should have been mine too, but it was alien to me. Detached, just like I had been from the family.
                          
And just like them it wanted what was mine.
                          
The golden mist swirled forward. Tentacles curling out, reaching towards me, demanding that I give up my magic. 
                          
If I let it, that tree would consume me; use up a fundamental part of my essence for the good of the family. 
                          
Everybody in the coven seemed to think it was an appropriate sacrifice, but what had the family ever done for me?
                          
I hurried past, spurning the connection.
                          
The front door sprung open at my lightest touch, but I didn't have time to dwell on my suspicions. Anything was better than hanging around in that abhorrent garden. 
                          
The living room was a mess, the grimoire missing. It all fit with Emily's version of events.
                          
Luckily the book didn't feature in my plan. 
                          
I had something better.
                          
Rushing through the house, I didn't stop until I reached the door to the downstairs bedrooms. Golden energy pulsed around the doorframe, showing me the barrier that had been strong enough to keep a vampire out. 
                          
Unease trickled down my spine as I turned the handle. The door didn't budge. 
                          
Great, the house was rejecting me now too, just like Anne and the coven. Reeling me in, making me think I might belong; and then the hatchet fell. I was alone after all. 
                          
I always had been. 
                          
But if I wasn't getting in by invitation, maybe I could force my way in. Maybe there was a point to Emily and Stephen's lecture after all. 
                          
I might be self-taught, but I was a witch, and I knew a spell. 
                          
The White Paternoster. 
                          
I hummed the tune, letting the familiarity of it fill me. 
                          
Shutting myself off to all the negative memories that had attached to the song in the last couple of days, I thought only of my mother. How the song had soothed me to sleep as a child, comforting me when the world was too harsh. 
                          
Emptying my mind, I let go of the turmoil from all the new people in my life. I let my emotions take me back to the one connection that had always been simple and pure.
                          
Mother and child.
                          
The quiet chimes of the silver tree floated up from the bedroom where I'd left it. I sang the words, low and quiet. 
                          
Open, open heaven door keys,
                          
Shut, shut hell door.
                          
The air began to heat, the scent of burning ozone filling the kitchen. 
                          
Let christened child
                          
Go to its mother mild.
                          
Silver particles floated out from every place that my skin was exposed, buzzing faster and faster. The specks jerked this way and that, joining with others, creating a web that reached out towards the door's golden light.
                          
What is yonder that casts a light so farrandly?
                          
Mine own dear son that's nailed to the tree.
                          
The silver web reached the golden energy that surrounded the door. As the silver particles multiplied and bonded, I watched with lurid fascination as they infiltrated and consumed the gold. The chimes grew more frenzied as the silver decimated all other magic in its path. 
                          
The door handle turned of its own accord, the mechanism clicking loudly before it swung open on its hinges. 
                          
The stairway was dark. 
                          
Where the hell was the light switch? 
                          
There wasn't time, the tree called to me. 
                          
I needed to connect with it. 
                          
Now. 
                          
I started down, using the narrow walls on either side to guide me. They were cold, and slimy. I fought the urge to pull away. 
                          
The soft silver glow of my life-force illuminated the immediate area. As I descended further into the earth, I began to think that total darkness would be preferable. 
                          
When the whispering started I closed my eyes tight, guiding myself by touch.
                          
My mother's youthful voice rang clear, cutting through the chorus of voices: It's not fair. Why do I have to stay? All the other girls are going.
                          
 Another, older voice scolding her with the dangers of leaving the family home. Others joined the chant: rape, violence, poverty, destitution repeated over and over at dizzying speed. 
                          
Then the agonised wail of a mother whose child had left her. Evelyn, my mother's name, stretched into a pitiable howl, a noise so full and hollow at the same time that it tore at something deep inside me.
                          
I braced myself against the walls of the stairway. I had to push it out, empty my head. There was a reason that my mother had left these people, had kept us separate. I had to trust in her judgement.
                          
By the time that I'd reached the bedroom, I was focused on only one thing. 
                          
The silver tree.