Spells for Forgetting(5)

There were two books that were passed down in the family: The Herbarium and The Blackwood Book of Spells. The book of spells was kept at my grandmother Albertine’s, on the mantel above the fireplace. That would be its home until she departed this life, and then it would be given to me. But The Herbarium was kept in the shop.

The heavy, leather-bound book was a kind of diary where the Blackwood women recorded the recipes and herbal studies that had become a kind of textbook. The thick parchment pages were covered in botanical sketches along with handwritten notes that filled the margins. It was used by every herbalist in the family, each one adding their research to it throughout their lifetime, though I had yet to contribute any of my own.

The tip of my finger ran down the page until I found where I’d left off.

I opened the jar of crushed roses first, sprinkling the paper-thin petals into the wide wooden bowl before me. The flower dust lifted into the air and I breathed it in until the perfumed scent of the summer blooms was thick in my lungs. I picked up the jar of shaved cinnamon bark next, giving the contents a gentle shake, and in that still moment between breaths, the air grew thin and brittle. I felt the crease at my brow deepen, my head tilting as I listened, and warmth bubbled under my skin again. Softly, but it was there.

The hollow silence stretched and pulled before a sudden crack shot through the shop and I jolted, knocking the bowl from the table. The jar slipped from my fingers, shattering at my feet, and the pink tissue petals blew across the wooden floorboards as a swift wind poured through the window, extinguishing every candle in one sweep.

I froze, my fingers clenched around the flat lid of the jar so tightly that I could feel its sharp rim cutting into the soft flesh of my hand. A trickle of hot blood dripped through my fingers.

On the other side of the shop, the window’s glass was cracked in a split, jagged line. I held my breath, the faint sound of whispering lifting in the back of my mind as I took a hesitant step around the table. I could see bits of gold and crimson swirling in the air outside and I pressed my bleeding hand to my chest, where my heart was beating like a ritual drum.

All at once, the leaves had let go of the trees and were blowing down the street like a swarm of jewel-colored locusts. But it was when I looked down that the sounds of the woods seemed to race into the shop, filling the space between its walls with the cold of midwinter.

There, on the ground in front of the window, a starling lay dead. Its glossy wings were outstretched, the brilliant purples and greens shimmering and the bone-white flecking of its breast reflecting the light.

Sometimes the signs were subtle, like a fleeting shadow or an echo in the trees. Other times, the island wasn’t gentle with her words.

I stood there, staring at the bird, as a painful twist woke between my ribs. And in the next breath, the ferry horn blared.





Three


    EMERY


“Bad omen, that is.” Leoda clicked her tongue.

She unstopped a bottle of witch hazel and soaked the corner of a clean cloth, eyeing the cut that striped my palm. Out the window, her husband Hans picked up the starling with a gloved hand. He held it in the air, inspecting the bird for a moment before dropping it into a burlap sack.

Leoda sighed. “First the trees, now this. If your mother was here, she’d say the same.”

She was right. That was exactly what my mother would say.

Leoda’s silver hair was pulled away from her face, where youthful eyes were framed in wreaths of black lashes. She was a small woman, with a slight frame beneath her baggy sweater, but her voice was always too loud for the cramped space of the tea shop.

I watched Hans disappear from view, and when he returned, he had an old twig broom in his hands. He swept the brick from side to side in long, brisk strokes, kicking the dirt up into the air. When he was finished, he pulled the wool cap from his head and ran one hand through his thin, white hair.

I hardly noticed the sting as Leoda roughly pressed the cloth to my palm. In addition to running the apothecary next door, she was also the island midwife, which meant she’d delivered nearly every baby in town, including me and my parents. But she’d never had a gentle touch.

She glanced up from my hand and her mouth was twisted to one side, as if she was trying to work something out. But whatever she was thinking, she thought better of saying it aloud.

“It’s nothing a little rosemary can’t fix.” She abandoned the cloth and took the small knife from my worktable, going to the bundles of herbs hanging from the rafters. “Where’s your black salt?” She lifted up onto her toes, cutting a few sprigs of rosemary free.

I hesitated before I went to one of the small drawers in the hutch at the back of the shop and pulled it open, finding the dimpled jelly jar with a rusted lid. Inside, the finely crushed charcoal dusted the glass gray.

The old brass bell jingled as I pulled the door open and pried the lid from the jar. I leaned out over the pavement and sprinkled its contents over the spot where the starling had been only moments ago. It was customary to salt the earth where death had been to keep its shadow from spreading.

When I was finished, I glanced up and down the street, watching the leaves skitter along the walks. In the distance, a crowd had already appeared at the entrance to the harbor and one by one, the shop doors were opening. More than one familiar face was visible behind the windows.

“I think this storm will blow through pretty quick.” I closed the door behind me, hoping that talking about something else would force the chill out of the air.