Spells for Forgetting(3)

That October had been one of whispers. The eyes of people in town had been drifting to the woods more and more, where not a single tree had taken the change of seasons. The long summer stretched far past its time, and though the cold rains had returned to Puget Sound, the island was still as green as July. It was strange, even for Saoirse.

Dutch didn’t stir as I stepped across the old floorboards, picking up my clothes where I’d dropped them in the middle of the night. I braided my hair over my shoulder and shrugged on the soft flannel, buttoning it up to my neck before I pulled on my boots. The hinges only faintly creaked as I let the door swing open and slipped out onto the porch.

Up the hill, Nixie Thomas’s house sat shrouded in the trees beyond a fenced patch of farmland. The windows were dark, the old truck gone, and I was glad I’d missed her. Her watchful eye had narrowed in the years since my mother died. So had her hearing, it seemed.

I pulled my jacket tight around me before sliding my hands into the deep pockets. The old dirt road that led to town was crowded on both sides by towering evergreens that held the island in a muted silence even when the sea was stirring with a storm.

My footsteps beat almost in time with the faint echo of the harbor bell that wove through the trees, and a sliver of sunlight glared on the face of my watch as I checked the time.

“Shit.” I breathed.

In a matter of minutes, the ferry would arrive, filling the island with the tourists that came in droves this time of year to go apple picking at Salt Orchards. When their canvas totes were filled, they’d wander through the town’s shops and end up at my father’s pub for a glass of mulled wine or frothy beer while they waited for the last boat.

A few more days, and the ferries would stop. The orchard would be closed for the winter, and this year, it couldn’t come soon enough.

The sharp snap of a limb made my steps slow, and I looked up to where a flash of something skittered ahead, disappearing around the bend in the road. A familiar prick crawled over my skin, and I knew that feeling—like a sudden fever.

When I was a child, the island’s whispers had been like the sound of my mother humming to herself as she crouched in the garden, or the familiar groan of waves crashing on the rocky shore. But I’d learned a long time ago that sometimes they brought unwelcome fates.

I took the bend slowly, staying close to the shoulder of the road, but stopped mid-stride when I saw it. Beyond the grove of redwoods, the leaves of a two-hundred-year-old hickory tree had turned gold in the night. All at once.

The ancient creature glimmered like a writhing flame in the fog, every leaf painted in the saturated yellow that usually colored the island in autumn. It stood like a blazing bonfire among the towering pines.

My hands tightened around the strap of my bag as I took the last few steps to stand beneath it. Nestled on one of the lowest branches, a starling sat unmoving, its head cocked to one side. The shimmer of purple and green glistened on its feathers, the bright white flecking encircling its neck like a collar.

The starlings were late, just like the trees. By September, the birds made their way south, but this year, they’d stayed. The bird watched me in a long silence, black eyes like drops of ink, before it suddenly jumped from the branch and took flight, disappearing.

A rush of cold wind picked up the strands of loose hair around my face and I trembled, staring up into the branches. Not one flaxen leaf had fallen, but the sound of them rustling was a quiet murmur. Some incantation that I couldn’t quite hear.

Down the hill, the town was settled into the fog that filled the lowlands. Only the white steeple of the chapel was visible, poking up through the mist like a reed in a pond. My eyes narrowed, watching the mist ripple over an undercurrent of reds and ambers moving beneath it. In another moment, it began to clear, and I realized my fingernails were biting into my palm.

The pointed leaves of the maple trees along Main Street shook on their branches, every one of them painted the color of blood. Nearly six weeks late, and with no warning at all, every tree on Saoirse had turned in a single night.

I knew better than to dismiss such things. We all did. It was the time of year when the veil between worlds was thin, and in that moment, I could feel the tingle of the Otherworld tiptoeing lightly up my spine.

The harbor bell rang out again, signaling the ferry to port, and I finally started down the hill. I picked up my pace, resisting the urge to look back over my shoulder, and the road eventually gave way to the uneven cobblestones of Main Street. The buildings were painted in the same shades of Puget Sound, blues and greens that melted together in the light. They were topped in moss-covered roofs, the glass of their single-pane windows catching the first bits of light as I passed.

I tucked a strand of unwieldy hair behind my ear, reaching into my pocket for the heavy iron key. The letters on the handprinted sign that hung over the walk were faded, their faces worn smooth by the sea winds.

BLACKWOOD’S TEA SHOPPE

HERBAL TONICS & TEA LEAF READINGS



When I saw who stood beneath it, I groaned, stopping at the bottom of the uneven stone steps.

Nixie was nestled into the eave beside the door, a ghost-white pumpkin covered in a blanket of barnacle-like warts propped on her hip. My favorite kind.

Her overalls were two sizes too big and the haphazard bun pinned on top of her head was unraveling.

“You see them trees?” She lifted one eyebrow.

I followed her gaze to the sour gum tree across the street. It was wrapped in a brilliant amber cloak, its reflection illuminated in the windows beside me. Like the hickory on the hill, not even one leaf had yet to touch the ground.