The Phoenix Cave

By Hope A.C. Bentley

It’s not easy being the daughter of a witch. Sal’s mother Rosemary can make a violet grow out of your nose (it tickles) and can stir up a nice bat repellent, but it’s up to Sal to make meals and take care of the magical creatures that live around their home. However, there is no one in the world Sal loves more than her

• Language: English
• Publisher: Golden Light Factory
• Release date: Nov 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9781732764538

Hope A.C. Bentley

I had the kind of childhood that generally does not create great art since it was almost cartoonishly happy. My brothers and I had doting parents, wonderful friends and the run of an idyllic little village in Connecticut. Most of my writing is a sort of wish fulfillment; what if there really was magic in the world? What if we had to go back to the pioneer days? What if we could bring back the souls of people we love? I started Golden Light Factory because I love igniting curiosity in young people, and I believe that books have the power to do that. I live with my hubby, three children and several chickens in an idyllic little village in Vermont.

Book preview

Quotidian: daily, perhaps a bit dull

If you were to see me and my mother at the farmer’s market selling lotion and tea as we do every Saturday, you would not notice anything particular about us. My hair is unusual because it is every color that an autumn leaf can be, but I don’t recommend judging a person by her hair. You might note that Mom and I like each other more than your average mother and daughter pair, and if you ever bought some of Mom’s tea, you would find that it works extraordinarily well to cure a sore throat. However, you would never, not in a million years, guess that my mom is a witch.

I don’t mean that she is wicked or cruel. On the contrary, she is my favorite person in the world. She laughs a lot and tells wonderful stories, and she is quite pretty as far as mothers go. She is shortish and thin and has shiny brown hair that hangs like a curtain of molasses down her back. When I say she is a witch, I just mean that my mother is a real, magical witch with a wand and everything (no warts, though).

If my childhood has been extraordinary, it’s not because my mom can make a violet grow out of my nose (it tickles). In fact, the day my story began was the most ordinary day in the world.

I woke up to the sound of my mother banging pots and pans. She was not cooking, mind you; she can barely toast bread. She just has the notion that the sound of pots and pans is a nice, cozy way to wake up, and she always takes a minute to clatter around in the kitchen when it’s time. Mom finished a drumroll on the frying pan and then whipped back the curtain around my bed.

Sal, you awake? She grinned.

No.

Mom crashed two lids together.

I sat up. That’s done it, I said, and got up to dress.

I make my bed every morning, and I must do a good job of smoothing the blankets because when I have finished, my mom does a spell to harden the covers and turn my bed into the kitchen table. The tree house we live in is small, and beds take up quite a bit of room. The tabletop is only as smooth as I have made the covers on my bed, so if I don’t want my bowl of oatmeal to wobble over a wrinkle, then I must do my best.

I made some oatmeal and put two bowls on the table/bed. While I did all that, my mom checked the illusions on our tree house and the spells that keep our tree healthy and still in a breeze.

Mom came in and sat down next to me. I put my arms on the table, and Mom took my wrists in her hands, threading her fingers around the bracelet I always wear, and whispered a blessing. Then we ate.

It was fall, which is always very busy, since my mom is a plant witch. We gulped our oatmeal and then went out to gather wild-grown plant seeds. It’s a wonderful way to spend a day. Really all you do is wander around in the woods and see what you can find. The air was bright and sharp, and the warmth of the sun felt precious, since soon it would be winter. My pet raven, Corvus, fluttered from tree to tree above our heads, cawing and rattling loudly, and occasionally dropping twigs on our heads for fun.

Look, Mom, I said. I’d spotted a patch of moonwort, its seedpods already beginning to dry. Moonwort has flat, silver-dollar-size seedpods that look like someone has cut out a handful of pictures of a full moon and strung them to the plant.

Oh, these are wonderful! Mom exclaimed. And look, they’re growing inside a fairy ring! Mom pointed out the mushrooms that formed a circle around the moonwort. Anything that grows inside a fairy ring is a hundred times as powerful, you know. I could use some in that new spell for scrying I’ve been meaning to try.

What’s scrying, Mom?

It helps you see stuff, like the future, or bits of the past you never experienced.

Oh. I thought a moment. Mom! You should see what the winning numbers are for the lottery and then we could win!

Mom chuckled. Scrying doesn’t really work like that, my sweet. Plus, we don’t need money. Mom nudged me in the bum with her knee, which I knew was supposed to be loving.

What do you mean, we don’t need money? We use it for groceries, hot cocoa, books . . .

Well, of course, but for us money really does grow on trees.

I turned to look at my mom and she grinned slyly.

I was immediately suspicious. What do you mean by that, Mom?

Mom looked around as if someone might be listening in the bushes. Well, I have something of a flair for illusions, you know?

It was true. The illusion that was on our tree house made it look like something a kid had made forty years ago. You saw a rotten ladder nailed right to the tree and a platform with peeling paint and wobbly boards. The real thing had steps spiraling around the trunk and then the house at about head height. It looked as if an oak tree had grown in the shape of a house, because that was, in fact, what had happened, thanks to Mom.

So, not all Folk can do illusions, then?

No, pumpkin. And I—well, I do them rather well. Mom bowed and made a magnificent pair of horns sprout from her head.

Nice, Mom, but what were you saying about money?

Well, I simply take a handful of leaves, and poof! It’s nice, crisp dollar bills.

Wow! We’re rich, then, are we? Instantly I thought of building a huge slide that went all the way down the mountain into town.

Well, not exactly. We have to be . . . sparing when we use the money.

Why, Mom? We could have a ski lift up to our house. Or horses! We should get some of those scooter things—

Sal . . . My mom cleared her throat and I turned again to look at her behind me on the path. The illusions I do on the money only last about five days.

You mean that five days after we pay people, they open up their wallets and find a pile of leaves?

My mom nodded, and if I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought she looked a little guilty. Mom is always telling me that Folk like her shouldn’t take advantage of non-Folk.

Mom, is that stealing, you suppose?

Well, some of our money is real. What we earn from the farmer’s market, for instance. But, pumpkin, I think of it more like a trade. You know that, thanks to me, the grocery store in town has not had to throw out a single bit of produce in eight years?

Why is that?

I put a spell over the whole fruit and vegetable section to keep anything from rotting. They save hundreds of dollars a week!

What about the diner? I put my hands on my hips and blocked the path. We stopped at the diner in town every week after the farmer’s market. It had the creamiest, most chocolaty hot cocoa in the world, served with a dollop of real whipped cream on top. The diner had my undying devotion.

Do you know the big oak tree that hangs over the kitchen?

Yes.

It was dying. When it fell over, it would have crushed the whole back of the diner, but I got rid of the bugs and healed it right up.

But, Mom, what about the bank? If everyone puts their money in the bank, why, they’ll have sacks full of leaves. Rotting leaves, I bet. Doesn’t that hurt the bank?

My mom frowned. You’re right, my dear. I will have to do something nice for the bank. Then she brightened. That big maple tree is about to break into their vault with its roots. I’ll turn the roots the other way. Save them thousands!

That sounded fair to me, so I turned and we walked the rest of the way home in peace.

Since Mom was so happy about the moonwort (and maybe a bit guilty because of the leaf money), that evening she took me out to pick leaves for a cape. She has a truly wonderful spell for turning plants into fabric. Forever, not just an illusion.

You know how in the evening, especially in fall, all the colors seem lit from the inside? Well, the maple leaves were absolutely blazing. I carefully selected a basketful of leaves the color of flames. Mom had an idea for some slippers to be made out of some lovely moss that glowed an emerald green in the slanting sunlight. Mom put a spell on everything to capture the color, and then we brought it all inside. Mom had me lay the leaves out on the table in the pattern that I wanted the fabric to look like. When I was done, she would do the spell to turn it into cloth.

Is it a very difficult spell, Mom?

It is very complicated, yes, but your clever mother has figured out a way to use less power.

She always insists that we do things without magic whenever possible. I understood that magic took energy and concentration. I had a sudden thought.

Are you a powerful witch?

She smiled easily. No, pumpkin, I am about middling when it comes to power, but when you combine it with a little cleverness, I can do things that powerful witches can do.

Like what?

"Take this spell, for instance. A powerful witch would probably just blast away with a gigantic beam of power and turn the leaves into cloth without regard for what leaves already are."

I looked a little confused, so she waved her wand and a rectangle appeared in the air. "Plants are formed of thousands of tiny parts, cells, that are shaped like this. She waved toward the rectangle that was floating over the table. Suddenly the lone rectangle was joined by hundreds of others, like a squashed checkerboard. I realized that plants already have these paths running through them. It’s just like weaving if you do an over-under pattern. So all I do is turn some of the paths into threads, and voilà! Cloth! My mom grinned, and I loved her more than ever because I could see just how very clever she was. A powerful witch would make everything from scratch, but I use what is already there, and so it takes a fraction of the power!"

You are quite clever, Mom.

Thank you, pumpkin.

Can I help?

Why don’t you thread that needle with the red thread for me. I need it to start the spell.

I picked up Mom’s needle cushion, which was shaped like a little troll’s head, and picked a needle.

That one is too big. We need something delicate.

I put it back and picked another one that was so small it looked blurry. I held up the thread and squinted at the eye of the needle. It was just a fuzzy, dark spot to me. I held the needle closer, and finally, when it was about three inches from my right eye, I could see the hole.

My mom looked at me. What are you doing, pumpkin?

Threading the needle, Mom.

Mom put down her moss and studied me. I jabbed the thread at the needle, hoping I’d hit the target without seeing it. I missed by a mile.

Mom came over holding a book. It was Treasure Island, one of my favorites when I was little because my mom always made the illustrations come alive and move about in the air over the page as she read.

She opened the front cover and pointed to some blurry splotches. Can you read this? I put my face as close to the page as possible and focused on the blurry splotches. Robert Louis Stevenson, I read.

Mom watched me, frowning. I think we better take you to the eye doctor.

The eye doctor?

Yep, said Mom grimly. You need glasses.

I don’t want glasses! I can see fine.

You don’t even know what you are missing!

I do too! I argued. It’s all just little stuff anyway.

Mom wasn’t listening. I wonder. . . She tapped her nose with her finger and thought for a second, all the corners on her face drooping a little, as they did whenever she thought of my father.

Did my dad have glasses? I guessed.

Yes. I thought maybe you could use a pair of his old ones, but we might as well do this right. Tomorrow we’ll go to the optometrist.

Mom nodded firmly and took the needle and thread from my hands.

All this time, she said, threading the needle, I thought you held things close to your face because you liked to smell them.

I opened my mouth to protest, and Mom winked at me. I bumped her shoulder with my head and she stumbled back dramatically.

Easy there! See, now you’re bumping into things.

Just do the magic, witch, I said.

Mom grinned again and set the threaded needle carefully on the table by the leaves.

Yes, ma’am, she said. Now, where is my wand?

Teapot, I said.

Of course.

Mom plucked her wand from the spout of the teapot and rolled up her sleeves. She made a sort of weaving motion in the air with her wand and concentrated hard on the needle. The needle trembled, then flew into the air like a dragonfly, trailing thread.

The needle darted toward the bottom edge of the pattern of leaves and then began to move so fast I couldn’t see it at all. The leaves I had placed on the table had not lain flat because the edges had curled up as they’d dried. As the needle passed through, the leaves relaxed and drooped toward the table, flat and smooth as a tablecloth. I watched excitedly as the smoothness spread upward toward the top of the pattern until it reached the neck of the cape. The needle flew up in the air over the cloth and then dropped suddenly onto the table.

Mom sat down heavily on a chair and wiped her hand across her forehead.

Well, she said, slightly breathless.

I approached the cloth cautiously and stroked it with one finger. It was thick and soft and slightly warm to the touch. The individual leaves had been smoothed into a single layer, but you could see in the print where each leaf had been. I picked it up and touched it to my cheek.

That’s amazing, Mom. Thanks.

Mom patted me fondly on the shoulder and nodded. Very nice, she said. It’s going to look great with your hair.

I’m going to look like a leaf pile.

Or a bonfire, said Mom.

That night I hung my new cloak by the trapdoor and got into bed. Recently I had thought that the tree house was growing a new room for me. A bulge had started off the living room, but after a few days it stopped expanding outward and grew shelves instead. It was a nice bookshelf, but something of a disappointment to me. Mom was reading in the living room, and I wished that I had some privacy. I wanted to test out my eyes, try to guess how bad they were, but I was also hoping Mom might forget about my eyesight and the doctor.

I lay back on the pillow and looked at the mobile of silvery things that Corvus had brought back to me from his flying excursions. Corvus loved shiny stuff. Every once in a while he’d leave the house for a day or two and come back with something he was especially proud of. We’d started a mobile of his collection when I was seven, and it still hung over my bed. It moved gently now in the small wafts of air from Corvus’s wings as he settled onto his perch. A thimble, a locket, a coin, a spoon, a tiny knife, an earring shaped like a snake; each passed over my head on a wobbling current. As always, I made a wish as the coin passed over. Please let me wake up with magic. That night I added another wish. Please let Mom forget about going to the eye doctor.

Myopic: nearsighted, blind to certain truths

The next morning neither wish had come true.

Can’t you just do a spell on me? I begged. I always felt a bit uneasy about going new places with Mom, especially if there was driving involved. I suspected that steering wheels were jinxed with some sort of bad-temper curse.

Nonsense, you know spells don’t work on you.

I didn’t know this. Really? Why not?

Mom busied herself in the cupboard.

I thought about that as I spooned a little bit of our honey into the top of an acorn for the gnomes who shared our tree, and put it out on the windowsill. The gnomes helped out with maintenance in the tree, finding blockages in the pipes or naughty squirrels nesting in the chimney. Even if they hadn’t been so useful, I would have liked to be on friendly terms with them, because the father gnome brought us robin’s eggshells and other beautiful things he’d found in the woods.

What do you mean about the spells? I shouted to Mom. She had her head deep in a bag of fertilizer and didn’t hear me. I glared at her bottom, and then I collected our garbage pail, ducked through the trapdoor in the floor, and went down the stairs to the ground.

There was a shelf fungus on the north side of the tree that was as big as a serving platter. I emptied the garbage onto it for the prunkles, who lived in an old stone wall nearby. Prunkles are creatures that look like a cross between a mushroom and a very small person. They have revolting breath and beastly tempers. To a prunkle, nothing is more fun than knotting your hair while you sleep or making your toothpaste taste like vomit. Giving them our garbage kept them from playing tricks on us and also got rid of our garbage.

Back inside I checked if Corvus had caught anything to feed my mom’s pet Venus flytrap. A normal flytrap lives in a swamp and eats flies and other small bugs. Since my mom had a bizarre fondness for carnivorous plants, Hamish lived in our living room (taking up quite a bit of it, actually), and he liked a plump mouse or vole every morning. Hamish’s green jaws were the size of hubcaps, and the pot he occupied was bigger than a toilet. He waited by the window with his toothy jaws wide open and glistening with slime. I crept up to him with a limp mouse Corvus had caught, then dropped it in and raced for the kitchen around the other side of the tree. I ran as quickly as possible because Hamish made horrible, slippery smacking sounds while he digested, and I swear I’ve heard him burp.

Let’s go, said Mom, brushing bits of peat moss off her shoulders. You fed Hamish and the prunkles?

I nodded.

Where is my wand?

I helped Mom find her wand, which was stuck in the soil of some seedlings in the kitchen, then I remembered that I’d been arguing against going to the eye doctor.

I don’t need to see small things, Mom. Honestly, we didn’t even know I couldn’t see until yesterday.

I know, said my mom. And here I taught you to read with huge illusions instead of actual print. Mom shook her head. I’m just horrified, really.

I hadn’t considered this at all, but frankly, I was willing to pass up seeing tiny things if I didn’t have to go to the doctor.

Mom wouldn’t hear of it. She bustled me through the trapdoor, to the bottom of the steps, then practically pushed me down the side of the mountain.

Well, of course the trip to the eye doctor was a disaster.

Mom borrowed Mr. Topple’s car to make the drive into the next town over. Mr. Topple maintains the cemetery and runs a funeral home, which is the first thing you run into after you walk down our mountain into town. Technically, he is our neighbor, though it is a twenty-minute walk through the woods. Mom gives him a powder that keeps the grass in the cemetery from growing too quickly, so Mr. Topple has to mow only