Chapter 7: Chapter Seven

This was the last place that I wanted to be.

I was seated next to my mother as she lit a fresh bundle of sage and walked around the room, making a show of cleansing the space for the timid middle-aged woman sitting on a stool opposite of me.

Candles had been lit hours before, and the wax was starting to drip over the holders and onto the floor. I tried to hold my breath as my mother brought the sage over the table we were seated at.

I had never particularly liked the smell despite the fact that its smell had become intertwined with many of my early memories.

My mother smiled over the table at the woman before us. She had tied half her hair back and bound it with a red string.

Her eyes were darkly lined with kohl and with the makeup, they looked as though they really did contain the mysteries of life and death.

“What brings you here today, Ms. Trubeck?”

The woman—Mrs. Trubeck—ruffled in her seat, squirming underneath my mother’s intense gaze and wringing her hands out. “My husband,” she started hesitantly, “I feel like he’s cheating on me.”

My mother leaned back in her chair, eyes dropping to the yellow gold band on the woman’s left ring finger. “You’ve been married a long time,” my mother said. The woman nodded ardently.

“You’ve always been faithful, but you’ve begun to wonder about him?” I ignored the urge to roll my eyes.

Mrs. Trubeck nodded, lowering her small eyes and raising a finger to her thin lips. “I want to know if he still loves me, I want to know if he’s with someone…else.”

“Someone younger?”

Reluctantly, Mrs. Trubeck nodded.

My mother reached for the woman’s hand and smoothed it out before turning it over so her palm was facing upward.

My mother traced certain lines and folded the fingers a few times before leaning back and squinting. What she was seeing—or pretending to see—was lost on me.

“Your spirit has aged faster than your body,” my mother told the woman.

“This line here—this one indicates your capacity for relationships. While you are able to be loyal and to endure, you do not have passion. You lack what makes a relationship worth being in.”

Mrs. Trubeck’s lip quivered. “I love him. I’ve spent my life with him, had my children with him, given him everything.”

My mother’s smile was sad. “You cannot give what you do not have.”

Mrs. Trubeck frowned, her eyes beginning to water. “So he ~is~ cheating?”

My mother released the woman’s hand and stood, pulling up her skirts as she walked toward the other side of the room where she had set up her shrine to the goddesses.

She touched the base of one statue in particular, the one who represented the goddess of marriage, Hera, Juno, Frigg.

My mother turned back to the woman, a heaviness in her eyes. “Women have borne this pain as long as the institution of marriage has existed.

“The most loyal goddesses are also the ones with the most promiscuous husbands. I do not know if your husband is cheating on you, Mrs. Trubeck. But I do know that this worry, it ages you.”

Morda slid her eyes over to the hunched woman and couldn’t help but agree.

“Your children are grown; your debt to them is paid. Your life is now owed to no one but yourself. Leave this husband, if he doesn’t appreciate your loyalty, give it to someone else.

“Free yourself from the suffering of the goddesses who cannot escape it. Do not condemn yourself to a life of wondering and insecurity. Free yourself.”

Mrs. Trubeck shook her head. “I built my life with him.”

“And now he’s building with someone else.”

Mrs. Trubeck pulled back. “You said you couldn’t know for sure—”

My mother frowned. “I don’t know. But you do.”

Mrs. Trubeck was struck dumb. She stared at my mother for a long time before looking to me, searching for someone to give her different advice, for someone to soothe her. I said nothing.

Mrs. Trubeck stood abruptly, clutching her small purse before fleeing the room, throwing aside the heavy curtains my mother had pulled over the doorway and leaving the house.

My mother sighed as she returned to the table and sat across from me.

“Why didn’t you just tell her that her husband wasn’t cheating and let her continue on in ignorant bliss?” I asked.

“That would have been a lie,” my mother said, rubbing at her cheeks.

“I bet this house that her husband is cheating, probably with some younger model he met through work. I wasn’t lying when I told that woman she was better off alone. It’s true.”

I frowned. “All she wanted to hear was that her marriage wasn’t a lie.”

“Marriage is a lie,” my mother said, “any kind of commitment to a man is. The only love you can rely on is the love of a mother, the bond of family. Anything else is simply fleeting. Anything else can rot.”

I prickled, my mind split between my father who my mother had shed from her life and to Ben who had claimed I would be at his side for the remainder of mine. “Lots of couples stay together.”

“They live in corrupt relationships,” my mother told me. She raised her eyes to mine and smiled. “I’m not saying don’t get a boyfriend, Morda, men are wonderful in small doses.

“But I am telling you that you should not do what that woman did, do not build your life on the promises a man gives you. Build for yourself.”

The doorbell rang, and my mother jumped up, clapping her hands together. She was always happy to bring in clients, especially on Sunday afternoon when business was usually the slowest.

I heard my mother’s low voice and another voice, much deeper than hers. It was distinctly male, which made me perk up. My mother had very few male clients.

My mother smiled at me as she led the stranger into our home and offered him a seat at the table. The man was breathtakingly beautiful. He might have been the most interesting person I had ever seen.

The man was tall and broad, muscles carved under his skin as white as marble. His face was strikingly handsome, symmetrical and lovely.

More so than his shape, it was his coloring that made him so alluring. The man looked as though he had been carved from snow and ice and stone.

His eyes were silver, his hair near white. He wore no smile, just a grim expression that made me shiver where I sat. Suddenly my mother’s candles and trinkets and sage burning seemed ridiculous.

My mother sat beside me and smiled at the man, her demeanor relaxed, but her eyes were sharp and focused. I didn’t miss her movement as she leaned closer to me—the stranger didn’t either.

“I’m Lila,” my mother introduced, “I have the abilities to—”

The man held up his hand. “I already know what you are and what you know.”

My mother tilted her head to the side, hand grabbing mine fiercely under the table. “And what about you? Do I get to know what you are and what you know?”

The man didn’t smile. “I’ve come here with questions.”

“I don’t give out certain answers to people I don’t know.”

“I want to know about the moon’s children.”

My mother sucked in a quick breath. The sound made me turn to her sharply. What did she know?

I blinked. “The moon’s children?”

The man looked down at me, almost as if registering that I was there for the first time. His silvery eyes pierced me, holding me in my seat and freezing the breath in my lungs.

He held me there as he inhaled deeply, his eyes almost seeming to darken slightly.

My mother bristled. “What do you want to know?”

The man shrugged; the motion was calculated and anything but casual. “I want to know whatever you know.”

My mother cleared her throat. “The moon’s children come in two forms. The son and the daughter. Two sides to the same coin.

“The son has no control over their magic, the daughter wields her power like a weapon. The sons of the moon are known as shapeshifters, half-men. The daughters of the moon are…”

My mother cleared her throat.

“Witches,” the man finished.

I tried to keep my breathing still as my mother nodded. “Witches, enchantresses.”

“Tell me about the sons,” the man demanded.

My mother waved her hand in the air. “Don’t you want your fortune read?” she asked, reaching for her tarot cards. “I can read palms and futures. If we’re lucky, we might be able to contact the dead—”

“The sons,” the man pressed, “I want to know about them.”

My mother stood and pulled her skirts into her hands, scowling at the man with tight kohl-lined eyes. “Why?” she snapped. “What use could you have for fables?”

“Fables?” the man asked, standing as well. He towered over my mother, his breadth dwarfing the room around us. “Are you not a child of the moon yourself?”

My mother stared straight ahead at the man, avoiding my burning gaze. Her voice was tight as she spoke.

“The sons of the moon are half-men. They are condemned to bodies that are controlled by the beast and must dwell in minds that are human.

“They have no kin aside from each other, but they are cursed to forever wander alone. Sons repel one another and therefore remain estranged.

“A son could wander the earth forever in search of its brother and never come across one.”

I frowned, imagining a son of the moon wandering the earth for a lifetime in search of others like it only to know that the closer they came, the farther they pushed any kin away.

“They are gifted hunters, but like Diana, they can sire no children. The nature of their curse makes them wanderers.

“They cannot stay in one place for too long or the beast begins to take over, and they are forced to leave or lose their human mind.”

“How are they made?” the man asked, drinking in every word.

My mother shuddered. “They are born from tragedy, forged by it, the sons of the moon will only ever find heartbreak, they will only ever find despair.

“A child born of these things is a magnet for the sons, and once a child is found, and if the cycle is right… the child is bitten.”

“Bitten,” the man breathed, eyes glassy.

My mother nodded gravely.

“Bitten and cursed and doomed to be a slave to the beast and the moon. The sons are forced to change shape, and when they do, they lose control of their bodies and minds. They become something other…”

“And how are they killed?”

My mother narrowed her eyes. “Tell me why you want to know these things?”

The man’s gaze was steel. “How do you kill a son?”

“No,” my mother said sternly.

The man stepped closer, close enough that my mother had to tilt her head back to look at him.

“I am not the kind of ~person~ you want to defy.” The man smiled grimly. “I was sent here to gather information, and I will not be leaving until I have it.”

My mother looked the man up and down, her lip curling. “I’ve met men like you,” she said, “men who think they live under the blessing of the Moon Goddess.

“I know how you men think. You act like you have the right to anything and everything. Well, you don’t have any claim on me.”

The man’s expression somehow grew colder.

“I’ve heard,” he said, “that the moon daughters aren’t particularly fond of bellarmines—witch bottles. I was told that if you can get the right ingredients and bury it—”

“Enough!” my mother snapped. “I’ve had enough of your bullying and won’t allow myself to be treated like this in my own home!

“If you want to know how to kill the sons of the moon, you can find another witch to bother. Better yet—catch one and try, but you’ll find that the sons are fast—faster than you could imagine.”

My ears were ringing. My mother had called herself a witch. She had said it clearly and without any sort of humor or sarcasm.

I stared at her, wondering if she could feel the holes I was burning into the side of her face.

The man growled. ~Growled. My blood ran cold as I thought of Ben and his friends. Was this man the same? Was it a coincidence that he was here in Roseburg when Ben and his friends were so close by?

“You will regret this, moon daughter,” the man seethed. He looked to me, and my mother stood in front of me swiftly, arms held out to either side as she made her move to protect me.

“Don’t you dare look at her,” my mother seethed, “leave her out of this.”

The man smiled. It was the first time I had seen him smile, and the gesture made me feel more scared than when he had growled and glared.

“It seems like she is already knee-deep, she reeks of my kind, but she wouldn’t be the first daughter of the moon to wander in the woods.”

My mother hissed at the man as he turned and left the room, her chest rising and falling as she hurried to the window and peeled back the curtain to watch him leave.

As soon as he was out of sight, my mother bounced into action, blowing out candles and ripping out her dangling earrings before running to the front door and flipping the sign to CLOSED.

I watched my mother as she pulled down the tapestries and heavy curtains along the walls, moving next to the shrine and taking down each goddess.

I couldn’t do anything but watch, words from moments before still holding me prisoner in my mind.

My mother crouched, her long dark hair cascading over her thighs and splitting over her knees. She grabbed the heavy woven rug on the ground and began rolling it over itself.

She looked over her shoulder at me, nose freckled from the sun.

“You could help, Morda,” she prompted.

I got up silently and pulled the red cloth from the table and folded it over my arm before blowing out candles and cleaning up the ashes from the burning sage.

As I worked, I thought. I tried mulling over everything my mother had said. Everything from the moon’s children to the word ~witch~ to the talk of me and the woods.

My mother had a small statue that sat next to her tarot cards. It was of a young woman holding a bow and arrow, poised to strike the moon if she dared.

A deer stood steadfast beside her, antlers reaching the goddess’s breast. Diana, Artemis, the matron goddess of the moon.

It didn’t matter what she was called, she was my mother’s favorite, and now I was closer to knowing why.

I looked over my shoulder to see my mother staring at her, rug forgotten. She smiled at me for a fleeting moment and then collected the rug and left the room.

I felt something rise in my throat and grabbed the statue, stowing it away in one of my mother’s boxes.

The room only took about half an hour to dismantle. Once my mother’s garb was away, the room was once again where I did my homework and watched mindless television before bed.

I tucked myself onto the couch and sighed as I heard my aunt enter the house.

“What’s up, punk?” she greeted, flopping down on the other side of the couch. Her red hair was done up in large curls that she had pinned to the crown of her head and let fall over her pale shoulders.

I shrugged, and my aunt poked me with her ringed fingers. “Where’s your mom?” I stayed mute, not sure how to answer.

My mother and I had worked in silence for the last hour, neither one of us saying anything after I caught her watching me inspect Diana and I had caught her confession.

I now knew she had this incredible breadth of knowledge she wasn’t sharing with me, and I was sure she was wondering what I knew. I just didn’t know how to start the conversation we both needed.

“Hey, Robin,” my mother said as she breezed into the room holding a mug of tea.

My aunt looked between my mother and me and frowned. “Your daughter is being strange.”

My mom sat in the recliner next to me and reached out to touch my knee. “Is everything okay, Morda?”

I clamped my teeth down on my tongue and forced myself to smile and turn my attention back to the television.

I had so much I wanted to say, so much I needed to tell her, and so much more that I wanted to ask. But I didn’t know how to communicate to her.

I couldn’t predict what her response would be to my words, so I didn’t want to say them at all.

I looked at her, and all I could hear was the word ~witch.~

My aunt looked between us and frowned. “Something is way off here,” she said. “Neither one of you have noticed that I am now sporting a beautiful ring on my left ring finger.”

My mother rolled her eyes. “Why do you keep saying yes when you never go through with it?”

My aunt sighed and wriggled her fingers in front of her, admiring the many rings she wore. They were all engagement rings of some kind, given to her by hopeful lovers who had tried to snag her heart.

Aunt Robin’s heart belonged to no one, though, not even to herself.

“I always need more jewelry.” She sighed.

“Well, I don’t need more jilted lovers bogging up my phone lines,” my mother retorted. I tried to smile, tried to laugh, but I couldn’t. My mother was a witch.

For years, the sham I thought she was running to fool people out of their money was really some representation of this foreign side of her I didn’t know. Some side that had the power to wield magic.

“Morda,” my aunt reprimanded, “you could try cracking a smile. You won’t wrinkle if you do.”

“I’m tired,” I said as I stood. “I need to sleep.”

My mother looked at me with heavy eyes. “Do you want me to come up for a bit? We could talk about—”

“No,” I interrupted, “I’m tired.” I wasn’t ready for that conversation, not tonight and maybe not tomorrow. I needed time to think, time to arrange my questions in the right order.

My mother seemed to understand because she just leaned back into the couch and nodded with a smile, her eyes distant but compassionate. I wondered then if she had ever intended for me to know.

I walked out of the room slowly, pausing halfway up the stairs and crouching beside the rail.

I waited until they thought I was gone and then listened as closely as I could, trying my best to tune out the television as I listened.

“—I’m worried about her.”

“I’m worried about you, Lila,” my aunt said. “Some jacked up wolf-boy threatened you today, with ~real~ knowledge. I’ve been urging you to tell Morda for years anyway.

“Did you think she was never going to wonder if your games were more than a ruse? Did you think the supernatural wouldn’t find her?”

“I didn’t think werewolves would,” my mother chided. I drew in a quick breath. She knew about werewolves. She knew about Ben, and now she knew that I knew and hadn’t told her.

“Werewolves,” my aunt scoffed, “there’s one clan that I cannot stand.”

My mother was quiet. “The wolves have been on their own for centuries now. I’m surprised they even remember we exist… worried that they’re asking questions.”

“They’re useless possessive creatures, majority of them can’t focus on anything besides marking their territory and growling at one another.

“I don’t like the idea of Morda getting tangled up in them, and I certainly don’t like that the one in your living room today knew it.”

My mother sighed. “I don’t know how to have this conversation.”

“Do it the way our mother did.” My aunt laughed. “Just cast a few sparks from your fingertips and let her figure it out.”

I bit back my breath. They didn’t share a mother. They shared a father. It was impossible… my aunt looked nothing like my mother, never mind the age difference.

“She already knows,” my mother said, “or she at least knows some things… I don’t know.”

I heard my aunt pat my mother on the knee. “We’ll figure it out tomorrow, Lila, for now let’s get some sleep and recharge. The goddess knows I need it.”

They started to get up, and I ran up the stairs as lightly as I could and dove into my room, changing quickly and flopping onto my bed, heart hammering. I took a few deep breaths, trying to steady myself.

~The children of the moon. Werewolves. Witches. Magic. Goddesses.~

My mother was a witch.

I sat up in my bed, heart back in overdrive as I clutched my sheets to my chest.

If my mother was a witch, did that mean I was one too?