Strands of white light began to glow between Lexi’s arms as she continued her dance, crickets singing a chorus. As soon as the threads glowed as brightly as the moon in the water, Lexi seamlessly lifted a jar from her robe and collected several strands in one fluid motion before doing the same a second and third time, until all but one ribbon had been captured with the glass prisons. The moonbeam that remained stilled before Lexi, and she bowed to it before it dissipated and set off the lights of dozens of fireflies and click beetles in the surrounding area.
“Would you look at that?” Therese breathed, excitedly hopping toward the pond. I grabbed her before she could disappear into the brackish water, but not before she managed to snatch a click beetle out of the air. After swallowing it, she licked her lips proudly. “Tastiest insect yet,” she announced. “Rather spicy.”
I watched, amused, as I could make out the beetle’s form through her cheeks.
Lexi returned to shore, robe trailing water.
“A beautiful display,” I assured her.
Lexi smiled and handed me one of the jars. “I’ll send the others along to David when I get a chance. Just don’t take too long returning that poor girl to her human form. She might develop some … unsavory habits in this shape.”
Therese squirmed in my hands, trying to leap for another firefly. I imagined her trying to lick her eyes with her tongue as a human child. I chuckled at the thought, but quickly sobered as Lexi slapped my shoulder. “Be nice to her,” she told me. “She’s at an impressionable age.”
“That’s right,” Therese agreed, stopping to chastise me. “I’m impressionable.”
“You’re something,” I muttered to her. I smiled at Lexi. “You didn’t have the privilege of meeting her before her transformation. In my opinion, this is quite an improvement.”
It was a hot summer afternoon, and the sun threatened to burn my skin. Mother insisted I cover my head with a silly-looking straw hat far too big for me, since I was only seven. It flopped into my vision every so often and slipped down the crown of my head as I trailed her around our garden. I loved being outside, watching her work. Most of the time, I entertained myself by chasing butterflies and making castles in the dirt, but my favorite moments were when she taught me what she was doing. My heart swelled at the immense knowledge she had of the natural world, and I hoped one day I would follow in her footsteps.
“What is this?” she would ask, pointing to a shrub sprouting purple flowers with slender bases that opened up at the end.
“Devil’s trumpet,” I said, recognizing the shape of the flower that had decided its name.
“Very good,” she said, ruffling my hair. “And this?”
I pushed my lips into a thoughtful pout as I examined the leaves of the bush she indicated: large and feathery, with a hairy underside. The berries that grew from the bush were a deep red and looked delicious, but I knew better than to try anything I couldn’t easily identify. “It’s not nightshade,” I said.
“No, it’s not,” she agreed. She stepped to the back side of the bush and lifted another clump of berries to show me others were white. I still wasn’t quite sure.
“Holly?” I said, even though I knew that wasn’t right. The leaves were all wrong.
“No, love; it’s a hard one. Baneberry. All parts are poisonous, especially the sap. We use the sap in a potion to help singers recover the full range of their voices. And we use the berries in a tonic that helps hair grow back.” She leaned in to whisper conspiratorially. “Your father had to use that one.”
I giggled.
Mother hummed as she cut roses and hemlock and poison ivy. I didn’t care much for the ivy. I’d gotten too close once and knew to stay far away from it, even if the cream Father had slapped together had cooled the itchiness quickly.
“Callum,” Mother’s voice called. I was trying to coax a fat green caterpillar to step onto my finger. I’d wanted to feel its legs tickle my skin, but I sighed, abandoning the endeavor to traipse over to her side. I watched as she unearthed a root from the ground, carefully pushing the dirt aside and minding the slender roots that stemmed from the large bulb. When it was ready, she pulled it from the hole and placed it in my hands. “Do you know what this is?”
I stared at the bulbous brown root, ugly and dirty, resembling the shape of a chubby baby. “That’s an easy one, Mom. Mandrake root.”
“That’s right,” she said, smiling. “Feel how firm it is? Strong, like you?”
I squeezed the solid root and nodded.
“That’s because you used to be a root like that. Your father and I tended to you in this very garden after we fertilized you. When we pulled you from the ground, you were covered in dirt, just the same, except that you were moving, wiggling like a little grub.”
I laughed. “A grub?”
“A grub,” she repeated, chuckling. “And you were the most beautiful witch I’d ever seen in my life, because you were ours.”
I beamed, staring down at the unmoving mandrake root in my hand. Mother handed me a basket and I tucked it inside along with more of its brethren. Many witches would welcome a child of their own, and the roots, or rhizomes, from these particular roots would be used to create more of their kind for other witches. They were perhaps the most valuable resources for my kind.
“That was the happiest day of my life,” she told me.
I watched the mandrake root, imagining such an ugly thing wriggling in the soil. “I don’t think I would ever want one.”
“Oh, well, you might change your mind yet.” She put a hand on my shoulder. “But when you’re much older. Before we even think about that, we’ll have to find a familiar for you.”
