Chapter 16

Chapter 16

I t was Midsummer Eve, and waves of Proctors lapped up to Ravenswood starting at dawn, eager to celebrate my success at the Crossroads. They came by pickup truck and sailboat, crammed into SUVs filled with children and animals, in carpools and on motorcycles. One even came by horse, galloping down Great Neck and splashing through the marsh to reach Bennu’s rock.

Since the Crossroads, Gwyneth and Julie had found a way to make sure the twins were comfortable among the many strangers who would soon arrive at Ravenswood. They put Pip and Becca in charge of handing out name tags. Proudly, the twins pinned their own to their shirts and waited by the witch’s tree to introduce themselves to the family.

As for Matthew, meeting the Proctors was a next-level challenge. He’d gotten used to me casting cards as I drank my morning tea, and disappearing into the barn or the wood for my lessons with Gwyneth. We’d even begun the work of integrating higher magic into our daily lives. It all paled in comparison to meeting the tsunami of witches expected today.

The first to arrive were Julie and her husband, Richard, along with her sister, Zee—one of the two Susies who ran the magic camp. The nickname was how the family distinguished Z-Suzie from her cousin S-Susie—or Essie, as she was known. Becca and Pip swung into action, presenting Julie’s sister with a Popsicle stick dipped in glitter with Z-E-E spelled out in uneven lettering.

By nine a.m. , a steady influx of family filled the meadow where the Old Place stood. While Ike and Grace directed traffic, Gwyneth made sure the food was laid out in the long room that connected the kitchen to the keeping room. Tables covered with bright cloths were laden with pastries, fruit, and steaming plates of fresh eggs, sausage, and bacon, which were refilled as quickly as they were emptied. Ike’s grown children, Tike and Courtney Mather, manned the fireplace—or enchanted it, to be more accurate. While their eyes remained glued to their phones, invisible hands lifted eggs, cracked them into a waiting bowl, whisked them into a foamy golden liquid, and then stirred them around in a huge cast-iron skillet. At another skillet, more spells ensured that the bacon was turned before it burned, and the sausage flipped the moment it was golden brown.

I watched their short-order magic, amazed at the way brother and sister had cast two interconnected spells to keep the hot breakfast items coming.

“I’ve always thought the Proctors should open a diner.” Julie passed by, garlands of magical pocket watches around her neck, each one set to remind her of some organizational detail that would keep the party running smoothly. “But I’ve never worked out the accounting. How do you claim a spell as an employee?”

“You worry too much,” Zee said, handing Julie an empty dish from the groaning buffet. Like Vivian, the head of the Madison coven, Zee was an accountant who had studied English literature. Like Gwyneth and the rest of the Proctor women—including Courtney Mather—Zee had graduated from Mount Holyoke.

Zee’s daughter Tracy arrived with two gargantuan boxes of cupcakes and a small brood of children. They were around the same age as the twins, and slowed down long enough to devour blueberry muffins and drain cups of orange juice before they sped outside to play.

“I’m going to help Pip with the name tags,” said a young boy with thick freckles and a name tag that read Jake.

“So am I!” said his sister Abigail. She dashed out into the sunshine with a handful of strawberries and a banana.

The eldest of Tracy’s children, Rose, stayed behind with Courtney and Tike. Rose felt she was far too sophisticated to hang out with the other children—even though she couldn’t be a day over ten.

More children arrived, and Julie corralled the boisterous lot at a table set up under the chestnut tree, where the materials for making paper boats, cinnamon brooms, and pinecone fairy-feeders had been laid out. Essie took charge and soon the children were absorbed in crafting these traditional Midsummer items.

I soon lost track of who was who and where they fit on the branches of the family tree. I squeezed babies and sympathized with young fathers about sleepless nights. I filled sippy cups for toddlers and provided mugs of tea and coffee to their frazzled parents. Still, the cars and vans kept arriving.

The only pause in the action came when Ike’s mother, Lucy Nguyen, appeared with Put-Put. As the eldest living Proctor, Put-Put would be settled in one of the keeping room’s chairs under the shade of the wisteria-covered porch. That was the plan, Julie said, but admitted that Put-Put suffered from selective deafness and would probably end up outside by the barbecue, where he could drink beer and watch the children.

Everyone clucked and fussed as Ike helped his grandfather out of the van and into his waiting chair. After settling in, Put-Put established himself as the head of the family by issuing a series of demands.

“Where’s my coffee? I want a cinnamon donut, too. And don’t forget the cream!” His sunken blue eyes surveyed the crowd. “Where’s Stephen’s girl?”

“Here I am.” I bent to kiss him on the cheek, but Put-Put had other ideas. He grasped my chin with his gnarled hands and planted his lips on my third eye.

Usually, an unsolicited witch’s kiss felt like a violation. With Put-Put it felt different, an inquiry into my state of mind so that he could be sure that all was as it should be after Proctor’s Ledge and the Crossroads.

“You’re Stephen’s child, all right,” Put-Put said after he pulled away. “But you’ve got the Bishop chin, just like your mother.”

My face was still in Put-Put’s hands. They were little more than skin and bones, but their strength remained.

“You were always one of us, Diana,” he said with a touch of fierceness. “What happened at the Crossroads was for the coven, and their peace of mind. It was never for your kin. We knew the truth of it, no matter your path. You are a Proctor. Don’t forget it.”

“I won’t,” I said. Put-Put’s complete acceptance, coupled with a Yankee’s unvarnished truth, was a balm to my soul.

“Where is the rest of your pack?” Put-Put said, releasing me. “I like that husband of yours, even if he is a bit jumpy.”

Matthew was at the grill, part of a circle of men watching Grace set the coals alight with a combination of witchfire and lighter fluid. Though the male members of the family outnumbered her three-to-one, and were offering unsolicited advice about how she could be doing a better job, Grace had no intention of letting any of them interfere. I pointed him out to Put-Put.

“Becca was with Julie, last time I saw her,” I continued, unable to locate my daughter in the swelling crowd. “Goddess knows where Pip is.”

“Here I am, Mom!” Pip clattered up to the porch with a baking tray filled with gooey pinecones, followed by a griffin and a swarm of flies and toddlers. Zee and Julie walked behind at a more sedate pace, each of them emitting a stream of opalescent bubbles from their mouths and noses that lingered over the parade of small Proctors.

We laughed at the sight of the two sisters, arm in arm, serving as animated bubble-makers to delight the children. Julie and Zee giggled, too, which increased the size of the bubbles and the speed at which they were released into the air.

“Off to feed the fairies!” Julie cried, waving at us. Her straw hat was decked with flowers and ribbons. “Who wants to join us?”

For all children, the line between magic and make-believe was fine and ever-shifting, but this was especially true of children born to witches. The newest generations of Proctors, enthralled by the prospect of seeing fairies in the wood, accepted each fresh expression of magic without a blink. Theirs was an enchanted world filled with the uncanny and the unexpected. What might my own life have been had I grown up embracing the family’s magical traditions and the wild, playful power at their core?

“Everything all right, mon coeur ?” Matthew murmured into my ear, tickling the flesh on my neck. He’d sensed my darkening emotions and come to see if I was okay.

“Better than fine,” I said.

“Rebecca is in the midst of a gaggle of teenagers,” Matthew said with a note of disapproval. “They’re shuffling cards and telling fortunes.”

“Leave the girl alone,” Put-Put told Matthew. “Better out in the open with her cousins than off exploring the wood. Make yourself useful and find my coffee.”

It was a rare occasion when Matthew took someone’s advice, but today was a special day and he left Becca to her own devices while he fetched Put-Put’s drink.

The Proctors’ Midsummer potluck shifted into high gear now that Put-Put had arrived. Gwyneth sat under one of the chestnut trees, encircled by tween witches and wizards who were having a go at casting with spell-looms. The teenagers remained in small groups with their oracle decks and tarot cards, offering free readings to any adult who wandered by in search of a cold beer or iced tea. Tike left the cooking fire to whittle wands for the college students who were now of an age where they could begin using the magical staffs to focus their craft.

Hand in hand, Matthew and I wove our way through the crowd, exchanging a few words with the cousins I’d already met and stopping to have longer exchanges with others. I picked up a hot dog from the barbecue, where Ike and a score of other males exchanged yarns about football and baseball while Grace flipped burgers and slipped blistered sausages into buns.

“May I help?” Matthew asked, eager to assist my smoke-stained cousin. He was desperate for a job.

“Absolutely not,” Grace said. “If I let you have a go, they’ll all want a turn. Row over to The Nestling and get the clams. They should be ready.”

After the last of the clams and lobsters were ferried over from The Nestling and the enormous bonfire lit, the atmosphere at Ravenswood went from playful to something more potent. Inch by inch the sun dipped below the western horizon and a slim witch’s moon rose over the water. As the shadows lengthened, I was aware that the longest day of the year was nearing its end. Light was giving way to Darkness in the eternal cycle of death and rebirth that carried all creatures into the future.

Weary parents tucked babies and toddlers into cots in the barn, propped up with dream pillows and firefly lanterns to comfort them if they woke in an unfamiliar place. The older children cajoled Aunt Gwyneth into a tour of the attic, but only after promising that they wouldn’t scream and wake the babies—no matter what horrifying sights they might see.

I sat with Tracy, a bowl of magic marshmallows between us. I speared one with a stick and it immediately bubbled and browned.

“Fire-free toasted marshmallows. You could make a fortune with these, you know.” I waited until the marshmallow was golden and popped it into my mouth.

“Hands off my marshmallows,” Tracy said with a laugh, making another for herself with slightly singed edges. She sighed happily at the charred treat. “Just how I like them.”

“So, what happens next?” I wondered. There was no sign of Julie, and Proctors drifted about the meadow, catching fireflies. Matthew, over Grace’s strenuous objections, was dismantling the grills.

“I think we launch the boats,” Tracy said, pointing to the flotilla of small paper craft the children had made. They waited at the edge of the marsh, each hull filled with flowers and berries.

“When does the real magic begin?” I asked in a low voice.

“It’s all real magic,” Tracy replied, making herself another marshmallow.

But there was more to Midsummer than these gentle enchantments. Darker sorceries were afoot, as well.

The excited cries of children alerted those gathered around the bonfire that Julie had returned, flanked by an escort of tweens and teens bearing torches that glowed with magical light. The individual personalities of the young Proctor witches shone through with rainbow flags and black neo-Goth outfits in a parade of solidarity and safety.

Ike rolled Put-Put to Bennu’s rock, where he and Gwyneth could watch the children release their boats into the water. Some were old enough to conjure up a fluttering wisp of flame at the top of their Popsicle-stick masts. Most needed help to light the beacons, touching their sticks to those of their cousins who had succeeded in calling forth the flames.

“Bless these boats as they sail into Darkness,” Gwyneth said, raising her hands and letting the power of the goddess work through her. “They carry our dreams and desires for the long nights ahead. May the goddess grant us love and luck in return.”

The children waded into the wetlands of the marsh in search of the currents that would carry their offerings out to sea. The small boats scattered, their flaming masts shining. Matthew slid his arm around me as we watched Pip and Becca take part in their first Midsummer ritual.

Singly, in pairs, and in family knots, the Proctors returned to the warmth of the fire.

While the children gorged on magic marshmallows and chamomile tea spiked with lavender, the adults took charge of the entertainment. Instead of setting off fireworks bought from a roadside stand, Ike led a crew of pyrotechnical wizards and witches to conjure wheels of fire that rolled across the meadow. Their carefully crafted flames posed no danger to the vegetation or the animals, and instead of the shriek and boom that accompanied most human fireworks displays, these emitted the gentle sound of witches’ bells.

Chamomile tea was not the only drink on offer. The steady flow of beer was augmented with pitchers of fermented honey, the magical elixir of antiquity. The more cautious Proctors were adulterating the strong mead with lemonade or adding it to beer to make the traditional brew bragget.

Someone called for music, and soon everyone was on their feet and dancing around the bonfire. Hands reached for Matthew and me, pulling us into the whirling circles of witches. The dancers broke into lines that moved in different directions, looping and twining until knots formed. The most daring took to the meadow, leaping over and through the flaming wheels like ballerinas.

The potluck’s previous games and crafts had been fun, but these nocturnal activities showed the depths of the family’s talent for higher magic. Darkness tickled children under the chin, and Shadow wove ribbons around their ankles. Elemental bonds of air, fire, earth, and water formed between one witch’s hand and another in a voluntary association stronger than any coercive spellbinding could be. As the power around the fire mounted, a bell tolled in the distance, louder with each successive knell.

The crowd quieted, and the dancers stopped their spinning. From the marsh came a tall male figure clad in golden oak leaves so thick it was impossible to see who or what lay underneath. The children were amazed by the sudden apparition, and even the teens were impressed enough to look up from their phones and stop taking selfies.

“Who’s that?” I whispered.

“The Oak King,” Matthew replied, a slight shiver raising the flesh on his forearms. “Before electricity we all felt the turning of the year when the Light ebbed away. The Oak King was the guardian of Light, and the coming Darkness meant that he’d lost his battle with the Holly King. Winter would come again to plague us with hunger and sickness.”

The Oak King didn’t play a role in the Madison coven’s Litha rituals, which were resolutely matriarchal and focused on the female powers of fertility.

“Who will be the Holly King?” Gwyneth cried.

“Your turn, Lisa!” Tracy said, pushing a cousin forward.

“Can’t Put-Put fight him?” Tike piped up, trying to be helpful. “He’s so old the Oak King is bound to beat him, and we’ll have summer all year.”

Put-Put wheezed and laughed, pleased with Tike’s astute strategy.

“I’ll do it!” Ike’s mom, Lucy, volunteered to face the Oak King. “I’d like a reprieve from the snow and ice.”

The Oak King circled the bonfire, his step deliberate, as the tension mounted. The teenagers pushed one of their number out into the open, but the boy scuttled back into the safety of the crowd. Others shook their heads and crossed their arms, daring the Oak King to pick them as his adversary.

The Oak King came to a stop and looked at me with open speculation. The family oohed and whispered. This was an unexpected development.

He extended an oak branch laden with golden acorns and leaves. The Oak King had made his choice.

“Me?” I’d already won one battle this summer. “Not this year.”

“You can’t refuse the Oak King,” Grace said. “He’s chosen you, and you must pit your Darkness against his Light.”

What if I failed and the seasons were affected? Climate change was already a real threat. I didn’t need to hasten the process.

“Shouldn’t the Holly King be a man?” I said in a final, antifeminist effort to avoid the responsibility. The Mount Holyoke contingent—which was large—howled in outrage.

“Women can also be kings,” Gwyneth said, with the calm certainty of someone who knew the burdens of leadership.

Resigned to my fate, I stepped toward the Oak King. When I came within reach of his gilded oak staff, the King touched me on the shoulder with its bright tip.

Magic spread from the point where skin and wood met. My body bloomed in response. Glossy holly leaves with sharp barbs erupted from my pores, decked with tiny white flowers and vivid berries. A coronet of holly branches twined around my head, and streamers of ivy wove through my hair. The circlet prickled, but not in an unpleasant way. In my right hand a white wand sprouted, carved from the pale wood of the holly tree.

I looked for Becca and Pip, wanting to see their reaction to my transformation. Had the sudden change frightened them?

The twins’ gazes were filled with wonder and pride.

“That’s my mom!” Pip said to Jake, whose eyes were round as saucers.

“Wow,” Jake replied. “She’s cool.”

Even sprigged out in holly and ivy like the Ghost of Christmas Present, I was neither overwhelming nor unwelcome to my children—or my kin. My family’s arms were wide enough to enfold me without pinching my magic out. As I looked around at the faces gathered around the bonfire—old and young, those who were now familiar to me and those I’d met for the first time today—all I saw was kindness and understanding.

“You’re beautiful, ma lionne. ” Matthew braved the holly leaves to press a kiss on my cheek. “It’s your job to win this fight. Show him no quarter.”

To overcome my opponent, I would need to draw on Darkness. Matthew spotted the unspoken question in my eyes and nodded. Had it not been for the sharpness of the holly leaves, I would have hugged my husband tight. Instead, I turned toward the Oak King’s golden splendor.

With a flourish of his oaken branch and a respectful bow, the Oak King invited me to match my wand to his. As the oak and the holly crossed, a low keening sounded across the meadow. The unearthly cry faded into an echo of something yet to come.

The Oak King drew his wand free, and the tip burst into stars that flew in every direction, their Light beating me back toward the depths of the Ravens’ Wood.

I raised the holly wand to the sky in response, and called on the ebony moths that lived in Shadow. They came, drawn to the white tip of the wand, smothering the Oak King’s stars. I pulled Shadow around me like a cloak as I advanced toward the Oak King.

He took a step back, and another. We made sunwise progress around the fire. The Oak King summoned more stars. They twinkled for a moment, but I called to the ravens, who swooped in and swallowed them with guttural cries.

Shadow lengthened into Darkness, its inky train blotting out the Light. I left a shimmer of powdered pearl behind me, a luminous promise of Light’s return.

When we returned to the place where we’d begun, the bonfire’s light was turning to embers and Darkness blotted out the stars. The Oak King lowered his bough into the fire, where it burst into spectacular multicolored flame. He bowed again, conceding to the Darkness, and melted into Shadow.

I was returned to my ordinary self, no longer clothed in sprouts and berries. Only the holly wand and the crown remained, along with a tingling aliveness that made me one with Ravenswood and its power.

“They’ve come!” someone whispered.

“Look! Look!” said someone else, her voice hushed with awe.

The Proctor ghosts had come out of the attic en masse to welcome Darkness’s return and gathered in the Ravens’ Wood. They spilled out from the trees and across the meadow. The night provided a tenebrous backdrop that revealed their every detail, from the sprigs of flowers on muslin dresses to the fine stitching on collars and cuffs. It was a marvelous spectacle, seen only one night of the year.

“Good job, Diana,” Tracy said, patting me on the shoulder. “Sometimes the Holly King doesn’t gather enough Darkness to bring them into focus like that.”

Lucy pointed. “There’s my Ike! And look, there’s Gwyneth’s sister Morgana!”

Morgana and Gwyneth stood, their hands raised and palms touching, in silent reunion. The former black bird oracle sent a glance my way, and dipped her head in thanks.

Sadly, there was no glimpse of Naomi.

A woman appeared at the edge of the Ravens’ Wood, following in the footsteps of the ghosts. Her hair and limbs sparkled with eldritch light, and a sliver of crescent moon gleamed from her brow. Her cloak was midnight deep, and tiny winged creatures tumbled and flew around her feet. They got entangled in the folds of the cloak and freed themselves with the strong beat of gossamer wings.

“My God, is that—” Matthew began, eyes wide.

“The Queen of the Fairies?” I nodded. “Yes, I think so.”

“The fairy-feeders worked!” Pip cried, giving his sister a high five.

Underneath all the otherworldly glow was Julie Eastey. Clothed in her power, and reveling in the glamour she cast, Julie was a sight to behold—one so breathtaking that it brought tears to the eyes of many.

Our Fairy Queen drew her wand and addressed her audience with the same words that generations of Proctors had used before her.

“ If we Shadows have offended, ” Julie began, her eyes bright with belladonna and magic, “ Think but this, and all is mended, / That you have but slumber’d here / While these visions did appear. ”

With a graceful twist of her wrist, Julie collected some of the surrounding Darkness and directed it into the heart of the bonfire, creating a molten black cauldron of bubbling fire. Gasps of astonishment sounded as Julie kept Darkness and Light in perfect balance. It was the performance of a lifetime, and even Matthew’s London friends would have been forced to acknowledge the power Shakespeare’s pen had given to this piece of Proctor spellcraft.

The bard’s poetry took on additional potency with the family’s alterations, which turned his words into pure magic.

“ And, as I am an honest witch, ” Julie continued, “ If we have released pitch, / Now to ’scape Midsummer’s light, / We will, ere long, make it right. / Give me your hands, if we be friends, / And Shadow shall restore amends. ”

Cheers swelled as the rituals of Midsummer came to a spectacular close. We threw wooden torches into Julie’s conjured cauldron, along with scrolls of paper containing spells, wishes, and dreams. Bits of magic popped and exploded like Catherine wheels and shooting stars, opening pathways through the night sky.

Amidst the cacophony of hollers and magic, I heard the low, sweet call of Darkness. My blood rose in response. I turned toward my husband, and pressed the length of my body against his. Our revels could continue in private.

For us, tonight’s magic had just begun.