As we get to the end of the stone path Granny opens a small wooden gate that leads into the trees behind us.
“Come on,” she hums gently, reaching for my hand behind her. I place mine within hers and she pulls me through the gate and out into the trees.
We walk a little further. The light of the lantern lights the trees as we pass, igniting the dark bark with flickers of orange light that dance with their shadows.
We reach a small clearing. One I have not seen before. But it has the remnants of a fire pit and the trees tower above it creating a perfect circle allowing the moon to shine upon us.
Granny places the lantern on the branch of a nearby tree and slowly moves into the centre of the clearing. She gestures me to follow.
I stand opposite her, unsure of what to expect next. Her eyes close and, holding each other’s hands in a relaxed form in front of her, she smiles.
“I come here when I need to be at one with the earth and ancestors around us.” She sighs quietly. “It’s so peaceful here.” She opens her eyes to look at me. “Nobody around for miles, and nobody snooping, especially at night.” She winks at me as she begins to lift her hands above her head slipping her fingers out of mine. I step a few paces back to watch.
They entwine together gracefully, and her shawl falls from her arms exposing her wrinkled tanned skin. Even in the winter my granny has a beautiful glow from being outdoors at any chance she gets.
She lowly starts chanting in a language I don’t understand. As she does a low rumble tickles under my feet. It pushes itself up though my heels and flows through my legs like a cool breeze. It makes its way through my body, making me shiver, like ice is being poured down my back.
Her hands fall and rest out to the sides, her palms facing the moon above us. She pushes her hands back through the air, but stiff as if she is pushing through something heavy.
As she does, the ground rumbles again, but this time heads of snowdrops penetrate through the earth all throughout the clearing, more than I can count, rising as my granny raises her hands above her. Each snowdrop is pure white with a small yellow glow in each flower, like tiny lanterns basking the clearing in light. I stand there in awe, unable to move or speak.
Granny claps loudly, her many bangles shudder and the echo of it flies though the woods like a gunshot. The glowing lights in the snowdrops flurry out of their petal homes and into the sky. Hundreds of fireflies dance around us, darting and swirling in patterns. Mesmerised by the experience, I watch them fly up towards the moon as if they are following their mother to adistant land we will never understand.
I look at my grandmother, the silver moonlight at one with her own silvery hair that falls down her back. The image of beauty.
“That was incredible,” I stutter.
She bows slightly. “Now you try.” She smiles.
I blink. “I-I can’t do that.”
“You don’t have to do that.” She chuckles to herself. “But you can try and do something. You know you have magic, Harri. Use it.”
I clear my throat. It’s one thing moving a spoon, but this, really?
“Stop doubting yourself,” she says soothingly like she has just been watching my own inner monologue. “You can do remarkable things, my darling. I just know it. This is not about you being a twin flame with Sam. This is about you knowing that you have power within you. As a woman. As a witch.”
I soak in what she is saying. She is right. Either path I choose I need to believe in my own ability and my own strength. Something I have never managed to do.
I look around me. The late-night breeze carries the scent of damp earth and bark as we both stand at the heart of the trees. They tower around us, their branches whispering in the wind at what they just saw.
I close my eyes, exhaling slow and steady. I focus deep within my mind.
It’s like I can feel those before us, around us. Witches from long ago. I can feel the past’s joy and its pain. I can feel the flames and the cruelty of those who hurt them. I can feel the fear as they hid amongst the trees. As they pushed their magic down so that they fit in with everyday folk, hiding who they really are.
Their emotions feel heavy on my shoulders as I carry them.
I start to think of my own joy and pain. Greg. The Belfours.Sam. Lola. My family. Brindlewood. The emotion stirs my magic from its rest, spreading its warming embrace throughout my body.
My fingers start twitching at the side of me. I focus on anger. The anger I have for those trying to hurt us, those who have hurt our kind, those trying to take me away from this. The fury burns in my throat.
“Make them move,” I say to myself, low and quiet.
The burning in my body intensifies, spreading into my chest. The quiet chatter of women sings in my ears. My ancestors helping me. Their own magic joining with mine.
“Make them move,” I say again with more intention, pushing all the emotion through my body and out of the tips of my fingers.
A pulse of energy ripples outwards. The ground trembles lightly beneath our feet. The trees, ancient sentinels of the woods, shudder in response. One by one, they lean slightly towards me, their trunks groaning as if awakening from a deep slumber. Bark cracking. Roots straining against the soil.
