Backwards Moon Page 7

  “How’s your leg?” asked the raccoon.

  “Not very good,” admitted Bracken.

  “Can you fly yet?”

  Bracken stood up and pulled out her broomstick. She climbed on and stood poised, her leg throbbing terribly. Raindrops tapped her hat brim.

  “Well?” said the raccoon.

  “I can’t,” gasped Bracken. “Nothing happens.”

  Slowly, Bracken put her broom in her pocket and sat back down.

  “It’s got to be the lead,” said Ben.

  The rain beat harder.

  chapter fifteen

  To think about looking for the Door was one thing, but where did you start? Nettle leaned over her broomstick, hovering uncertainly above the Atkinson House.

  Something wafted toward her. A scent, a hint of spun spell. . . . It was coming from the walled garden around the great oak.

  She skimmed the tree’s huge crown and landed on grass still wet from the long rain. She walked along the flowerbeds, sniffing. They were planted with many types of herbs, but none of them gave off the mysterious scent. She spotted a patch of enchanter’s nightshade: a plant small and modest, but powerful. As she crouched down and breathed in, the roar of the city seemed to fade away.

  Then a hand touched her shoulder.

  Nettle jumped and spun around.

  It was an old, messy-haired woman. She wore trousers and big muddy boots and spectacles that glinted in the harsh not-dark of the city. But she could see Nettle, obviously. “Did the nightshade bring you?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Nettle, startled.

  “So it’s worked! Old Mr. Atkinson would be very pleased.”

  “What?” said Nettle, staring.

  “Mr. Atkinson liked witches. He put it in his will that there would always be a garden here with the sorts of plants that witches like. The rowan trees, the nightshade. That big oak. He’d be pleased to know it finally worked.”

  “Who are you?” asked Nettle.

  “My name’s Dee,” said the woman. “I’m the gardener here. I’ve come to weed the nightshade. By moonlight, when it sends out its scent,” she added, prodding the plants with her walking stick. “But you should keep an eye out.” She nodded wisely. “The police have been around. Somebody took some very witchy items from the glass cases in the big house,” she said, looking hard at Nettle.

  “They didn’t belong to humans,” said Nettle.

  “No,” agreed the woman. “I don’t suppose they did. Or to Mr. Atkinson, either.”

  “Did you know him?” asked Nettle.

  “I’m not that old! But I’ve read about him. I’ve worked here a long time. The Atkinson House has a whole library of books about witches, did you know that? Though some don’t want to admit that now.” She laughed. “ ‘Special Collections,’ they call them, but they’re all still there if you know what to ask for. And I’ve read them all.”

  “Did you ever hear of the Door?” blurted Nettle. “There’s supposed to be a door somewhere here, a door to another world.”

  The woman thought for a long time. “Door,” she muttered. “Door. . . . It seems to me there was something about a door.” She leaned on her walking stick, frowning. She bit her thumbnail and tapped her foot. “Maybe my sister will know,” she said at last. “Come.”

  “People used to say old Mr. Atkinson was a crackpot, but I never believed it,” she said as she stumped down the path. They followed it to a patch of hazel bushes growing in a far corner of the garden. “The potting shed,” she said, waving her walking stick. “They made it into a gardener’s house.”

  “Anna!” she called, kicking off her boots and banging open the door. “Anna! Do you remember anything about a hidden door in the big house?”

  It was a messy and crowded room, filled with old bottles and empty cans and piles of magazines stacked high against the walls. “No,” said a woman sitting in the gloom.

  “I found a witch in the garden!”

  “Witches are dead and gone. Dead. And. Gone.”

  “That’s what you think,” said Dee. “Look, here’s one. The nightshade called her in! Come, turn the lights on. It’s no use sitting in the dark.”

  “I can’t find the extension cord,” said Anna.

  “It’s around here someplace,” said Dee. She reached down and rummaged, then suddenly a light came on. It was a little milky globe, dangling from the ceiling by a single cord. “Fire up the hot plate, Anna. We’ll make some tea.”

  It was odd, sitting in the little house. The walls were the familiar gray stone of home. The windows had many small, wavering panes, just like the ones in a witch’s cottage. The tea tasted almost like meadow-mint. But other things were a mystery. Nettle’s teacup had writing on it that said Dunkin’ Donuts. Anna’s said Have a Nice Day. “Thrift shops,” said Anna, as though that explained anything.

  Nettle leaned over her tea and breathed in the steam, for that was what you did with tea, to be polite and to honor the plants that were giving up their essence. She looked up—Dee and Anna were doing the same thing. Both their spectacles filled with fog. They took them off and set them on the table, and it was then that Nettle noticed that their eyes were a deep violet-blue.

  They had once been witches, she realized with a shock. Oh, it was awful to think of! And the Fading must have taken away their powers.

  “Dee,” she said cautiously. “Anna. Were you once . . . witches?”

  “Witches?” Dee shook her head. “How could we be witches?” asked Anna.

  “I think you were,” said Nettle urgently. “And then, well, I think something called the Fading got you. Did you ever hear of the Fading?”

  Anna frowned. “No.”

  Dee shook her head again.

  Then all of a sudden a thought struck Nettle.

  It was an awful thought, a terrible thought—so awful that she couldn’t stop staring at the two old women who sat across the table from her.

  Dee.

  Nettle’s mother’s name was Adelia.

  “Dee,” said Nettle. “Is your full name Adelia?”

  Dee looked puzzled. “It might be. I’ve forgotten, really.”

  Nettle asked Anna, “Was your name Nicotiana?” Because that was Bracken’s mother’s name.

  Anna frowned. “I think it might have been,” she said slowly. “But no one calls me that anymore.”

  “Where did you come from?” asked Nettle, her heart sinking.

  “We don’t know,” said Dee. “That’s the thing. We can’t remember anything before we came here. Nothing at all.”

  “We were hired as the gardeners at the Atkinson House. For the witch plants,” said Anna. “We knew about herbs. But that’s all we remember.”

  “We’ve forgotten all of our old lives,” said Dee softly. “So many memories that were important to us . . . They’re lost. Gone.”

  Nettle put her hands to her face and turned away, shaking.

  How do you tell someone she is your own lost mother?

  And what if the mother you thought you would find someday turns out to be completely different than you imagined? An old not-witch with muddy boots.

  Nettle stood for a long time, there in the cluttered cottage with her back to the two old women. Everything was going wrong. Everything.

  “Is there something we can help you with?” asked Dee at last, her voice kind.

  Nettle took her hands from her face. She stood for a moment, not knowing what to do. Then she turned back.

  “The Door,” she said, her voice quavering. “Do you remember anything at all about a door?”

  “Door,” said Anna. “Door.”

  “There’s a door near the Atkinson House. A door to another world. I think maybe it’s the reason you came here. I think you were looking for it.”

  Dee bit her lip. “It does seem to me there might have been a door.”

  “If Bracken were here, she could do a remembering spell,” said Nettle.

  “Bracken,” said Anna. />
  Your daughter! Nettle almost said, but it was too sad, too terrible. “My cousin,” she said instead. “She’s better at spells. I never remember them quite right. But I could try to get you to remember. Because I do really, really need to find the Door.”

  “Try,” said Dee.

  Breathe, thought Nettle. Breathe, and the spell came back to her.

  Most of it, at least.

  She let out an impatient breath, huh, and began. “ ‘Rosemary green, and lavender blue, thyme and sweet marjoram, hyssop and rue,’ ” she muttered. There was more: something, some something. . . . Drat. Still, she made a spark from her finger—the last part of the remembering spell. “Awake, memory,” she said and held the light high.

  Anna and Dee looked at it, transfixed.

  “We came from somewhere else, I know that,” said Dee slowly. “Home was someplace far away, and then for some reason we came here.”

  “Did you find the Door?” cried Nettle. “The Door to another world?”

  “It seems to me we might have,” said Dee. She shook her head. “But I can’t remember.”

  chapter sixteen

  It was night when Bracken and Ben and the raccoon reached the City on the Great River. Lines of cars streamed in front of them, behind them, and on either side. Lights flashed and whizzed. Green signs saying things like Exit 24 came careening out of the glare, hovered above, then vanished as the pickup truck sped underneath.

  “I don’t like this,” muttered the raccoon. He held his tail, fingering it nervously. “I don’t like this at all.”

  Ben leaned over the wheel, his big-knuckled hands gripping it tightly. Every once in a while he muttered something under his breath.

  The raccoon turned to Bracken. “How about using that necklace of yours? Just wish us to the house and out of this!”

  Bracken touched the cool, smooth beads. “It only works three times,” she told the raccoon. “It has to be dire need. And it has to be a wise wish.”

  “Look,” said the raccoon. He put his little hand on her arm. “Wise means not getting killed! Doesn’t it? And dire? Believe me, I know dire when I see it.”

  Bracken shook her head.

  “But you would still have one wish left!”

  “I just don’t think I should,” said Bracken.

  Three wise wishes. . . . If you made an unwise one, maybe it wouldn’t be granted, and it wouldn’t count against your wishes? Or maybe it would, and one of your precious wishes would be wasted?

  She was still puzzling and worrying when Ben spoke up.

  “I’m guessing this house you’re looking for is an old house,” he said. “If it was on that map of yours, it’s got to be. So it’s in the old part of the city. I’m going to try to find the oldest neighborhood, and then maybe something will come to you, huh? I mean, if it’s a magic house and all, maybe you’ll recognize it, somehow.”

  “I’ll try,” said Bracken.

  The raccoon sighed heavily.

  Ben stopped the pickup truck at what Bracken now knew was a gas station (the farmer had bought gas several times already) and talked for a long time with a man inside. Bracken and the raccoon watched through the big glass windows.

  “He’s a good human,” said the raccoon. “There are some, you know.”

  “He is a good human,” said Bracken.

  Ben came back. “Guy thought I was kind of nuts,” he said, climbing onto the seat and starting the truck. “But I think I know where to go. Sort of.”

  After a time he swerved from the giant road onto a narrower one. Soon there were fewer gleaming, lighted buildings and fewer cars. “We should hit the river pretty soon,” he said. “The guy said there are a lot of old houses along the river.”

  It took several more gas stations, but at last they found the river. It ran, dark and quiet, at the bottom of a deep and forested gorge. Houses all along it overlooked the river.

  “This is a nice, quiet neighborhood,” said the farmer. The street was lined with big spreading trees and street lanterns like the ones in the Cyclopedia. In the far distance Bracken saw a bridge, its line of lights reflecting in the dark water.

  “What do you think of these?” asked Ben. “These houses seem like they were built a long time ago. Do any of these look likely?”

  “I don’t know what to look for,” said Bracken miserably. “I can’t think . . .”

  They drove on, past house after house after house.

  At last Ben stopped the truck. “I don’t think this is going to work.”

  “Bracken.” The raccoon turned his little bandit face to her. “This is dire need.”

  She looked out over the river, her heart beating hard. The bridge’s string of glimmering lights reminded her of a necklace. Perhaps it’s an omen, Bracken thought.

  She put her hand to her necklace and wished.

  At first, nothing seemed to happen. Bracken put her face in her hands.

  “Don’t cry,” said Ben. “Please.”

  But Bracken was crying. There was no other sound in the pickup truck.

  “Bracken,” said the farmer suddenly. “Wait! I feel something.”

  Bracken snuffled and stopped.

  “I think something did happen when you wished. It’s like this funny feeling behind my eyes. And it seems like . . . I think maybe I know where to go,” said Ben.

  “You do?” said Bracken.

  “Seems like it.”

  “Start the truck!” said the raccoon. “The necklace comes through again!”

  They drove along the river.

  Ben slowed at a corner and paused for a second, then turned onto a street that led away from the river. They turned several more times, Ben pausing before each turn, then they stopped in front of a big castle-like house. The farmer shut off the truck and its noise died away. “Is that it?” he asked.

  Bracken rolled down the window. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  The farmer hurried around and opened the door for her. Bracken got out, and all three walked slowly toward the house.

  “That wall,” said Bracken, stopping. “What do you suppose is behind it?”

  “A garden, I bet,” said the farmer. “Big places like this, they have those formal gardens.”

  “There’s magic in that garden,” said Bracken. “I can feel it.” She hobbled toward the wall, then craned her neck to look up.

  It was a very tall wall, all covered with vines. There was a door in the wall but when Ben tried it, it was locked.

  “I can climb over and take a look around,” said the raccoon. He grabbed on to the vines and pulled himself upward.

  Nettle tried the remembering spell again, then held her fingerspark high. “The Door,” she whispered, gazing at Dee and Anna in turn. “Oh, please remember!”

  “I can’t,” said Dee. “It’s all a fog.”

  “Try,” pleaded Nettle.

  Anna shook her head. “It’s no use. Everything is gone.”

  “Look. I’ll get some enchanter’s nightshade,” said Nettle, running to the door. “It might help. It’s quite a powerful herb.”

  She ran down the path and was almost at the nightshade when she saw something moving in the darkness right in front of her.

  A small humpbacked animal seemed to be wandering among the flower beds, sniffing at things. At first Nettle thought it might be a dog. But how would a dog get in the garden? And it didn’t move quite like a dog.

  It peered up, startled. “Nettle?” it said. “Are you Nettle? Because your cousin’s looking for you. She’s on the other side of the wall.”

  “Where?” cried Nettle, running toward the raccoon.

  He pointed with one finger.

  She pulled out her broom and soared over the wall.

  “Bracken!” she cried. “BRACKEN!” She swooped down and jumped off her broomstick. She hugged her cousin tight. And then she burst into tears. “Bracken, I met—I think I met—our mothers! And they’re old. The Fading got them. They’re not witches anymore at a
ll! They’re little old women who’ve forgotten everything. They don’t know who I am, they won’t recognize you. . . .”

  “Our mothers? You found our mothers?”

  “I think so. Just now,” said Nettle, the tears streaming down her face. “And they don’t seem like our mothers at all.”

  “But . . .”

  “They used to be witches. Their names are Dee and Anna. Like Adelia and Nicotiana, don’t you see? And they have our eyes. That’s how I knew they were witches, from their eyes. I can’t do the remembering spell just right, but you could. Then they may remember the Door, where the Door is. I’m looking for this Door. This Door—” She stopped suddenly, noticing the human man who stood nearby.

  “He’s a Witchfriend. His name is Ben,” said Bracken quickly. “Magic brought him.”

  “Merry meet,” said Nettle, nodding.

  “Where are they?” asked Bracken.

  “They’re in the garden. Right over the wall.”

  “The door’s locked,” said the Witchfriend, Ben. “We tried it.”

  “Do an unlocking spell!” said Nettle to Bracken. “You know lots of them.”

  Bracken touched the lock, muttered a few words, and the door swung open. They all hurried through.

  “Bracken, what’s wrong with your leg?” asked Nettle.

  “I was shot. By hunters.”

  Nettle stopped. “What?”

  “In the leg. It hurts.”

  “Wait here!” Nettle ran ahead and snatched up herbs: heals-all and heartsease and a sprig of enchanter’s nightshade. “Here! Try these!” she panted.

  Bracken undid her bandage and pressed the herbs to her leg.

  “Did it work?” asked the Witchfriend.

  “I don’t think so,” said Bracken. She took a few wobbly steps and winced with pain.

  “If it hurts to walk, just fly,” said Nettle.

  “I can’t,” said Bracken.

  For a moment Nettle could not speak. “You can’t fly? It’s not the Fading, is it? Say it’s not the Fading!”

  “I don’t know! I don’t think so!”