The Witches of Norwood County

By Wendi Whitsett

Foreword by Virginia Kay Walker:
“Witches...we’re not what you think. We’re not green-skinned, covered in warts; we don’t cook in cauldrons, eat babies. Hell, we’re not even all women. Witches can be guys, too. I’m a witch. A famous one. They call me the ‘Weaver’. Because I can weave, re-imagine, the Fabric of reality. Sounds a bit crazy. I wasn’t always like this. I was born a sleeper—a person unaware of magic. My grandmother used to say—the world is full of magic, Virginia. I learned, late one rainy winter night, that she was wrong. The world isn’t full of magic, it Is magic.”

Virginia Walker is a witch. A famous witch. They call her the ‘Weaver’. Though Virginia came by her gift in the most heinous of ways. And she’d give her ‘gift’ back if she could.

As the tides of Fate seem overly rapt with Virginia, she finds that trouble follows her. One night in the darkened back streets of Santa Fe, New Mexico—home to Virginia and the Norwood County coven witches—a man is attacked. His injuries showing magical affections and an otherworldly touch. And the attacks continue.

Drawing Virginia into a twisted matrix of magical collusion. Could the Council of Prophets be responsible? The supposedly benevolent law-makers of their underground world? Newton Hunter doesn’t think so. Newton—Norwood County coven leader and Virginia’s best friend—believes in the rightness of the tides of Fate with complete conviction. She believes in the council. Of which she may be a part soon. Newton also believes in her friend. Using her powers to control the mind through sound waves, Newton helps Virginia uncover the truth behind the attacks.

But as the days progress, a tangled web of seemingly disparate acts coalesce. And Virginia realizes the council may be more than what they seem. Not the self-purported benevolent arbiters of magical use but simply a group of self-aggrandizing politicians. The election may be more than it seems.

Virginia must uncover the truth. Before she loses her coven leader and her sense of ground. For Virginia also harbors a secret. A secret twisted inside the matrix of magical politics, magical abuse, and the very thing that provides her gift. The very thing that took her beloved and gave her the title of Weaver.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wendi Whitsett
• Release date: Apr 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9780692248218

Wendi Whitsett

Wendi Whitsett hails from the plains of West Texas. She's a proud Texan, though her travels have taken her from one end of the continent to the other. She's lived in San Francisco, where she studied and taught Yoga. She's lived in Boston, where she wrote music and explored her desire to 'flit-about' on stage. She's spent time in Central America, celebrating the Mayan New Year in Tikal and the many villages in the low and highlands of Guatemala. She's studied Shamanism and the ways of the indigenous cultures of the Quecha and Shuar throughout South America. She has seen real magic. Though she understands now, after getting 'schooled' by Amazonian shamans, that magic is everywhere. It is the world around us.

Book preview

The Witches of Norwood County

by Wendi Whitsett

…

"Coo-coo-ca-do

I see you

Three little witches plus one

But soon, minus two…"

Copyright © 2014 by Wendi Whitsett

Cover design and art by A. Smith & Co. with William Kozak @ www.asmithandco.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN: 978-0-692-24821-8

For Chewi and Nilo…you weaved real magic.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

About the Author

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Alright Bunny, that was pretty good. Though I submit that bit of potato chip is clearly rust-colored, not orange, my pops, my father said, pushing his worn glasses back over the crook of his nose.

Pops, you have to stop calling me that.

What…my little Bunny? Why? You carried around that particular stuff animal till you were sixteen.

Hey! That’s our secret, remember?

Yes, that is our secret, little leporine, he laughed. It’s between you, me, and…what was her name?

Maribel, I said.

Right, Maribel, he said and smiled.

Maribel had white fur, pink ears, and glassy brown eyes. I still had Maribel. She lived on my nightstand.

Pops, you’re a very precise man. Very academic in your evaluations. So, why does your car always look like this?

He glanced around before setting his eyes back on the dark road. Like what?

A dump, I laughed.

The contents of this vehicle are carefully and purposely organized. Those, he pointed to a pile of papers on the floor at my feet. "Are the papers to be graded. Those, he pointed to the backseat. Are the completed evaluations from last week’s lab work."

My father is a brilliant man. He’s a physics professor at the university in El Paso, Texas. But very little of his brain power is committed to practical things. Even his hobbies are brainy, nerdy. Like astronomy, weather patterns, and the study of ancient languages. And a bunch of other stuff which, frankly, I can’t really appreciate. Like string theory…something about the quantum state of particles.

Dad! I lifted my feet uselessly, as I’d already stomped on everything on the floor. These papers belong to your students? He merely smiled, not answering but turning the steering wheel blissfully. I picked up the papers, separated the bits of candy wrappers and former foodstuffs, and placed the pile gently into the backseat.

Ok, it’s my turn now, he said. I spy with my little eyes…something golden brown.

What?! That’s not fair. Half of this car is in the brown palette.

Well, if you’re ready to concede…

No, no. I got this. I began scanning the interior of the old Chrysler LeBaron. The cracked brown vinyl dashboard, the ripped fabric seats. This was gonna be hard. Knowing my father, I could be looking for a single strand of thread in the fabric of the seats that turned a shade of ‘golden’ from years of wear and tear.

I sighed, Ok, here we go. I got through all the obvious big stuff first, then went in for the goodies. The light display on the cassette ejector button?

Yeah, my dad still has a cassette player. And cassettes.

That is amber-colored my dear.

The flecks of glitter on the doggie sticker on the dash?

No.

Can we please take that off? Half of it is gone anyway.

But you put that there when you were ten. I like it.

Ok… I shook my head and looked around the car again, attempting to see things with fresh eyes. "This is something I can see right? Those are the rules of the game. You’re not cheating are you?"

His eyes shifted up and to the right. The motion was slight, but he’d given himself away. I looked up. I’ve already asked if it was the ceiling panel. And the visor material. Is it the mirror frame? He nodded no and grinned slyly. It better not be. Cause that color is definitely beige.

It’s not the mirror frame, he laughed.

I sighed again and looked in the mirror. My hair, normally straight, because I straightened it, was cast in messy dark brown curls around my head and shoulders. It had been raining on and off all day. Humidity was my enemy.

I flipped on the tiny light switch and began to finger-brush the knots into neater waves. I licked my thumbs and wiped the black streaks from underneath my lids. I don’t wear a lot of makeup. Just a little blush to color my pale cheeks, a little eyeliner and mascara around my eyes…my eyes. I stared hard at myself in the visor mirror. Closely examining my own eyes.

Dad, I said, with a tinge of warning.

"You found it didn’t you, little Bunny! Or them to be precise."

I found ‘em alright. My eyes? Really?

In my defense, the visor was down. The mirror was accessible. You could see them.

But I wouldn’t qualify them as golden, I said.

Oh, I disagree. Your eyes have always had a tinge of gold near the pupil. I remember. I used to stare at them for hours when you were a baby, he said and grinned.

I looked again, seeing the lines of gold, in my otherwise brown eyes, streaking to my pupils. I smiled too, and flipped the visor back into its closed position.

Hey, he said, gently patting my left hand with his right. I’m really proud of you honey. You stuck with it and got through school with excellent timing.

I had recently completed my master’s program. It was official. I was in debt. And a librarian.

Thanks, Dad.

"We’re really proud of you," he said, over-emphasizing the ‘we’.

I grunted. It was soft, but not soft enough.

What? You don’t think your mother is happy for you?

"Honestly, I don’t know what she is, Dad. I don’t get why she has to be so cryptic. Why can’t she just say what she means? For instance, what was all that weirdness before we left the house? Something about the ‘convergence of multiple fateful threads’." I waved my fingers in swirls across the empty air between us, deepening my voice, affecting a mysterious and wicked tone. He laughed at my attempts to imitate Claire–his wife and my mother.

While my father is everything academic, scientific, my mother is the polar opposite. She is a witch. A very powerful witch. When I was younger, I asked her, begged her, to teach me magic. But she refused. I stopped asking after a while.

She loves you, you know. She just wants you to be happy.

Yeah, well, she has a weird way of showing it.

No matter my daughter. For she was right, tonight is a very special night. We might be getting a glimpse of the rings of Saturn.

Oooh!

It was my birthday today. My twenty-fifth birthday. Every year Dad and I went to the observatory up on Franklin Hill. To look at stars and distant planets through the big telescope. Every year we took the drive, played road games, and sang songs…badly.

"Oh! You get a line, I’ll get a pole honey!" He began singing our song. The song that we abused year after year, hour after hour.

As we continued up the dark and wet highway, belting out lyrics, the rain picked up its pace. The windshield wipers struggled against the wind as it created tiny rivulets of ice down the glass.

I took a deep breath, ready for the next verse, when something caught my eye. An old oak tree on the side of the road. I stuck my nose against the side window, watching the wind move through the upper branches, making them sway and buck. The water cascading in perfect zigzags from the upper to the lower branches. It was strange. The movement seemed…intentional. Almost choreographed.

But that was impossible. It was just wind, just rain. They had no agenda.

I shrugged it off and began singing again. A few minutes later we turned up Silver Street, the road winding its familiar way through the rocky mountainous terrain. Water poured in streams down the rock face on either side of the road. I’d never noticed that before. How red and bare the hills were up here. My mouth stopped moving on its own. The singing in me ceased.

Something was wrong.

Hey Dad, can you slow down? He continued to sing. I had to laugh. He looked so happy. Dad!

What?! he startled and swerved the car too far to the left, causing the tires to squeal and squelch on the wet road.

When he’d adjusted our direction, and released his death grip on the wheel, his eyes slid to me. We both burst out laughing.

We cheated death there didn’t we, Bunny, he said.

I took a deep breath. Yeah, we did. You know, it’s been really cold today. Just keep all four tires on the road and go slow please?

In truth, it had been really cold all winter. But winter in Texas, it’s not supposed to be like this. We have a cold day, a warm day, a cold-ish day, a hot day. And then lots more warm days. That’s just how it is. But I’d seen more icicles in the last month than in my lifetime.

You got it, he said, squinting hard through his glasses at the dark road, the headlights of his old car barely cutting a path through the torrent. I took a good look at him. Henry and I, you’d never know we were related. His ginger hair, turning white, fine and straight; his eyes as blue as the sky on a West Texas spring day. But watching him, driving like he was ninety-three instead of fifty-three, hunched over the steering wheel, I adored him. I adored the way he styled his hair in the morning, only to have go flat in seconds. I adored his inability to ever tell a joke properly, always dragging it out and missing the punch line entirely. I even adored his love of Mom. No one seemed to get her like he did.

I slid my eyes softly back over to my side of the road, feeling silly staring at him, opened my mouth to pick up our song but stopped. The chill, the creeping, found me again.

I squinted hard through the front window, seeing only pockets of blackness illuminated by his lame headlights. As I sat back against the creaking vinyl, my eyes finally picked it up. A large shadow topped by frothy bits of translucent white rushed across the road from the opposite side, several dozen feet ahead of us. It hit the bushes and trees first. Then hit an old telephone pole at ground level.

Dad, lookout! I screamed, seeing the telephone pole begin its descent onto the road.

He jerked the steering wheel hard, sending the back of the car sliding left and right. He tried to compensate. But only seemed to make it worse with each correction. Soon, we were turning in circles. I didn’t know which way was which. Every rock lip, every yellow line on the surface of the road, every tree zoomed and blurred by. And then we were falling. Up became down. Over and over.

Time slowed. Papers from the back and front seats floated up, seeming suspended in air. We finally stopped as the front of the car hit something hard. I was thrust forward in a violent jolt. Then the world went black.

…my head hurt…my chest hurt. Where was I?

I blinked twice, twice more, trying to clear my head. I was in the car. We’d just been in an accident. I reached up, feeling little welts all over my face. My fingers came away wet and red. Everything felt dull and slow. I moved both my arms. Those were working. I tried to move my legs. Those won’t working. But not because they didn’t want to; the dash had moved forward by at least a foot, trapping them. I was wet from the neck down. The rain poured in from the broken front window and cracks from the passenger windows. But especially, the driver’s side. As the car had come to rest on its side, with Dad closer to the road above us. The front of the LeBaron was wrapped around a tree.

Dad? His head was slumped to the side. I couldn’t even see if he was alive. Dad? I asked louder this time, my voice cracking. His head finally moved.

Are you ok? he softly croaked out, turning his face to me. He had a large cut over his right eye. But he didn’t look so bad.

Yeah, I think so. How about you? I asked.

Ugh…I think so. So much for the airbags.

Airbags. Stupid airbags. He was right, the stupid airbags were still inside the stupid dashboard.

That’s it. You’re getting a brand new car when we get outta this ditch.

He huffed out a laugh and I heard a horrible thing. A terrible sound. Gurgling.

He lifted his head back and we both saw it at the same time. The gear shifter was old-school. One of those that was attached at the base of the steering wheel. But it was not attached anymore. It had snapped off and was sticking out of my father’s chest.

Oh my god, I breathed, reaching out instinctively. But what the hell was I gonna do?

Stay still. Just stay still Dad. I need to find my cell phone. I looked around the mess, the wet chaos that was the car. An edge of my rose-colored purse stuck out from the mess on the floor. I stretched my arm and fingers as far as they would go. Dad yelped.

Honey, he said. I think you might want to stay still. His voice was calm. Unbelievable calm. I was not.

Jesus, Dad. We need to get help. But I don’t think I can get to my phone without…moving everything in my lap. And driving that stick further into his chest. I kept that thought to myself. But we both knew it.

Where is your phone?

He nodded slowly, drops of water falling from his chin. I don’t know sweetie. It was in the back seat when we left the house.

His phone was not in the back seat anymore. It was right next to me. The tiny screen was cracked, wet, and dead. It’s not working. I looked at him, reached over with my left hand, You just need to hold on ok?

Virginia…I can’t feel my legs.

I swallowed hard. Ok Dad, just hold on, you’re gonna be alright. Someone will notice the marks on the road. Someone will come for us. You’re gonna be fine. We’ll get help.

I’m not sure I believed a single word I said to him. But it didn’t matter, I had to say them. And someone would come for us. Someone had to come.

But no one did. We sat there for an hour, two, maybe more. We talked about my new job at the public library. We talked about mundane things, the last movie we saw. My teeth began to chatter as the shock wore off. His shock took longer, but eventually it gave in; the shaking of his teeth, it made his whole body shake. He was feeling it now. The pain.

I thought of my mother, and how she’d done something for me when I was kid…maybe eight or nine. I’d fallen off my bike and landed on some gravel. A particularly big rock had stabbed into my side, piercing my liver. All I remember is being in the car, driving toward the hospital, and her waving her hands over me, speaking rapidly. It was a spell.

The spell, her words, her power, had saved my life. I could use that spell. What was it? The words were there in my head, but not at all.

Why hadn’t I paid more attention? Why hadn’t I tried to use magic more? Why hadn’t she taught me?!

I began crying. Overwhelmed by my own impotency and watching him try not to look how he felt. He almost passed out several times. I knew enough to know I needed to keep him awake. I started screaming his name, Henry. I only saw my father cry once, at Nana’s funeral. But in those hours, he cried too, several times.

He finally smiled softly and squeezed my hand, his lips and chin shaking. We…c…can’t…c…cry Bunny. Every…everything will

He didn’t get to finish his sentence. The rain must’ve finally moved or softened the ground or branches beneath us. The car slid forward another inch. It was enough. I looked at him, shock filled his face. His reddened but still crystal-blue eyes calmed, then went glassy, just like Maribel’s.

Dad?

Blood poured from the wound around the gear shifter now.

Dad!

I squeezed and rubbed at his hand, the tears pouring shamelessly down my face, my lips blubbering incoherently. Dad, no. His grip finally went limp too.

No! Terror rose up from the bottom of my spine and erupted from my throat like hot lava.

I can’t tell you what happened next. I thought my father was dead…gone. But his grip returned; he squeezed my hand like he was trying to get something out of it.

Don’t let me die. Don’t let me die. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go! he said over and over and over again.

I don’t want you to die, I said, mumbling through the shock. I didn’t know what else to say to him. And then…I began to feel his fear for my own. Could taste it on the back of my tongue. His grip was so strong. I could’ve sworn I heard the tiny bones in my hand cracking and breaking.

Dad, let go, I said. I wasn’t sure where the words came from. Dad! Let go!

And he did. We both did. Somehow, in that moment, we got mixed up.

I was surrounded by bright white opaque light. Nothing hurt anymore. I could see the car beneath me, stuck in the ravine. But I struggled. I fought. I wasn’t ready to die either. A terrible ripping sound filled my being. As if the nature of reality were being torn in two.

I was suddenly in my body again, gasping for air, for life-giving breath. My body cold, but it was there, and I was alive. And so was everything else.

My gasps turned inward as my mind tried to process what I was seeing. Lines…patterns…movement. The trees, the leaves on the trees, the brush, the rain–everything had patterns. Unique and similar patterns. Threads of light reaching out from one thing to another. The ground was a river of light, lines flowing and intersecting with each other, reaching up into everything connected to the ground, forming new patterns. The dance was perfect and chaotic.

Even the car had patterns, but geometric and static.

I looked over at Dad. His patterns were different. Soft blue and green pinpricks of light blinked on and off, up and down his torso. As I watched, the flickering slowed, and finally stopped. His body was quiet. Empty. My father was gone now, truly gone.

Chapter 2

Ten years later – Santa Fe, New Mexico

The young mage, Viola, pierced the water with her vision. Pierced it with her sight. Her magical sight. She could see the amulet, lying at the bottom of the lake. Glowing. Shining. Seeming to dare her to dive in and take it for herself, I read, pausing to look at Brittany’s young face. But the bottom of the lake was a long way away.

The group of kids, part of our Wednesday night reading group, Finagle a Fable, leaned forward in anticipation. Their eyes wide, their mouths agape. Even the parents were rapt.

Viola turned to her friend. Her best friend in the world, Brian. Brian was an elf, she a mage. Their friendship was dangerous. But precious to her. As was Brian. And he was dying. The magic contained in the amulet would save him. But getting it might cost her…more than she could afford.

Eight-year old Brittany Wright. Her eyes went wide. Her hands flew up to her mouth. I tried not to smile. But my lips fell into a funny grimace. For as Brittany was moved by the efforts of the young fictional mage, so was Brittany’s soda by way of her elbow. Strictly speaking, drinks are not allowed in the library. But I let people cheat in the reading room. As soon as the cup started its descent, my instincts were already firing. My fingers barely brushed the air as my mind pushed out. The cup was suddenly two inches to the right. Sloshing but upright. A paper cup with a volume of liquid is a simple thing. The patterns are quiet, almost dead. Redrawing the pattern two inches to the right was nothing. Like brushing my hair.

But this was Brian. I continued reading as if nothing had happened. And he would not hesitate to save her life. Viola took a deep breath and pointed her hands at the rough surface of the water. Fire leapt out from her palms and cut the water in two. Creating a sizzling tunnel of steam and bubbles. She took one last look at Brian’s pale face, his wilting ears, and dove into the icy valley.

I calmly closed the book, The Petulant Mage, and smiled at all the young faces. Yes, a witch reading a story about mages. I don’t do these things by accident.

They clapped, as they always do, and moaned, as they always do. Ya gotta leave them wanting more.

We will see how Viola fares in her lake retrieval next week, I said as they filed out.

That was awesome. A cracking young male voice said from behind me.

Hey James. How’s it hanging?

A little to the left, Ms. Walker.

That’s James Esquivel. A thirteen year-old boy on the cusp of twenty-five. He’s been coming to the reading hours since he was a sprite, since he was barely tall enough to reach my knees.

Well…good for you. I smiled at him.

That’s a good story. Really exemplifies the bond of friendship.

I raised my eyebrows at him, but not so much. If James wanted to play adult, so could I. True. It also peaks the imagination, the wonder at magic still left in the world.

He nodded seriously.

Just don’t grow up too soon, James. I knew James rode to the library on his skateboard. I knew he played sports and video games. But any thirteen year-old kid that still loves to read, I will always find time for.

Ms. Walker, I have to do a book report on Christopher Columbus. Can you help me find the right reference book?

James knows the library as well as I do at this point. He could find it on his own. But we enjoy each other’s company.

"Sure. Let’s hit the history section and see what