In the spring of 1998, Madge Shimizu, an undergrad student working toward a degree in botany at a notable East Coast university, randomly received an anonymous and innocuous chain letter. The chain letter, like most in those days, promised that even the wildest of Madge’s dreams would come true, if only she were to send a copy of the letter out to ten people and one back to the letter’s original sender. Though bright, young Madge was also exceedingly superstitious, so she promptly copied the letter eleven times and popped them all into the mail. While she didn’t truly believe that a chain letter could affect the outcome of her life, her bright and promising future wasn’t something with which she was willing to take any risks.
Besides, what harm could sending out a few letters do?
Much to her surprise, Madge quickly received a note of gratitude from the chain letter’s original source, a lonely, pregnant seventeen-year-old girl living on an isolated island off the Washington coast. Through their ensuing correspondence, Madge learned the poor girl had few friends. And as she wasn’t very close to her mother, she said, she had very little support at home. The girl felt utterly and completely alone. The chain letter, Madge surmised, had been the girl’s attempt to connect with the outside world in search of someone to nurture her, which Madge was happy to do. It seemed particularly auspicious that the girl’s name was that of a plant.
A few months after the girl’s baby was born, Madge did something that baffled even herself. Instead of taking her semester final exams, Madge packed up her Volvo and moved to the island with every intention of saving the young mother and infant daughter from a life of isolation, neglect, and hopelessness.
It was during her long cross-country drive that Madge realized that the chain letter had worked: her wildest dreams were coming true. It was just that her dreams of a college degree and a career in botany were tame ones. If Madge’s future was to be bright and promising, she somehow knew that her life had to be built around only one thing: Fern Blackburn.
Upon arriving, Madge discovered that she wasn’t the only one from whom Fern had evoked a noble sense of sympathy. In fact, Fern had been corresponding with naive college students like Madge all over the country. And like Madge, they arrived in early spring — the group hovering somewhere between ten and thirty. They brought small camp stoves, heavy dark-green tarpaulins, and portable toilets that failed by mid-July. They filled nights with the sounds of drum circles and lovemaking. They brought dogs with coats ratty with mange that Judd managed to heal and an outbreak of gonorrhea she couldn’t. More importantly, they brought their devotion and their idolatry, and most of all a perverse desire to do whatever it took to make Fern happy.
Fern’s Followers, as they called themselves, stayed until the heavy October rains brought their tents down around them. After that, only the most devoted remained, which included Madge. She was no doubt already Fern’s lover by that point. Nor had never been sure whether Madge was in love with Fern of her own accord or because Fern had wanted her to be and so made it so.
This was Fern’s gift: the formidable ability to manipulate the minds of those around her.
At Fern’s “suggestion,” Madge took the money she’d been saving for a backpacking trip through Europe and rented out an empty storefront on Meandering Lane. A card table was set out front with a sign offering palm readings for five dollars apiece, and the back room was used as a living space. They transformed a small closet into a nursery after Fern, having seen the obvious affection Judd and Apothia were developing for baby Nor, left the Tower and took the baby with her. It didn’t matter that Fern had no genuine interest in motherhood. That was one of the things about Fern: once she knew someone wanted something, she had to have it simply so the other person could not.
Most of Nor’s childhood memories were of that small storefront, that closet nursery, and a parade of strange people. She had known some of them by the whimsical names they gave themselves: Summersong, Lake, Vega, Wintersweet. She remembered the clack of the wooden beads that had once hung from the doorway between the front and back rooms, the small hot plate and microwave oven that had made up their kitchen, and the pedestal sink where they’d brushed their teeth and washed their dishes. She remembered the ripped leather sofa against the wall and how the floor was always slippery with down sleeping bags. The little closet where she had slept was draped in brightly colored tapestries; a watermark stained the ceiling. Her bed, a twin-size mattress, had taken up the entire closet floor.
It had been Madge who took care of Nor, Madge who was more mother to her than anyone else in those days, Madge who usually put Nor to bed — making sure she’d brushed her teeth at that sink, that her pajamas were clean. Occasionally it was Vega and his boyfriend Lake, who had a fondness for bedtime stories. Summersong made Nor sleep sachets filled with crushed lavender and rosebuds. Wintersweet liked to serenade her to sleep, plucking chords on a mandolin and singing Spanish love songs in a soft, wavering soprano. Everyone but Fern had delighted in playing mother to Fern’s child. Except when they hadn’t. Listening to the raucous laughter outside her little closet, she sometimes waited for someone to remember she was still there. On those days, Nor was left to put herself to bed.
Though Nor had always gone to sleep alone, she sometimes woke up next to Fern. It was strange for Nor to see her mother asleep — docile and quiet, her blond hair lying limp across the pillow, her dreams fluttering behind purple eyelids.
One night, Nor had opened her eyes to find her mother staring at her. Fern verbally dissected Nor’s face, pointing out the parts that were hers, the parts that were Nor’s father’s.
“This,” she said, pointing to the dimple in Nor’s left cheek or the arch of Nor’s eyebrow, “is mine. And this,” she said, running her finger down the slope of Nor’s nose, “is your father’s.”
Any ugly parts left over came from Judd.
Afterward, Nor had gazed at herself in the mirror, wondering if she’d recognize the parts of her in her father’s face if she ever saw him. That Saturday, she wandered through the farmers’ market, trying to recognize her nose in the faces of the men in the crowd.
Another night, Fern had shaken Nor awake and taken her to the fire escape. They’d lain down on the roof, and Fern had pointed out the constellations, both the real ones she could remember and the ones she made up entirely.
“Don’t you think I should have everything I want?” Fern whispered. “That even the stars should burn a little brighter, Nor? Just for me. Just because I want them to?”
And with a flick of her wrist, the stars had intensified. The night sky became brighter and brighter until it hurt to look up at all. When the roof caught fire, Nor fled from the blaze, tripping over her blanket as her mother laughed — an eerie, high-pitched laugh that echoed over the sleeping street — and held her palms to the flames until they cracked and blistered.
It was there, watching Fern boil her own skin, that Nor had first learned to fear her mother.
The years went by, and eventually a few more of Fern’s devoted followers moved away. First Summersong and then, much to Vega’s dismay, Lake left the island as well. Still, Madge’s store, now called the Witching Hour, continued to grow. Their apothecary section not only carried common herbs like lavender, sage, and thyme, but soon more obscure plants that Madge grew herself. Wormwood and mugwort were good for hexes; anise seed and feverfew for protection spells; mandrake root to bless the home; and calendula to bless the heart. None of their spells ever worked, but people bought them anyway.
The Witching Hour’s popularity soared with the start of their guided walking tours, the first a lantern-lit trip to the cemetery on Halloween. They held festivals celebrating the pagan holidays, and every Sunday morning, the back room that was their home served as a passable space for private palm readings.
Fern’s involvement in the store was sporadic at best. When she was bored, which was often, she got a kick out of tricking customers into purchasing expensive teas she claimed had healing properties. She’d take their hands and stroke their health lines with her ragged nails.
“It’s specially blended,” she’d purr. “Tailored to what I discern an individual needs.” Then she’d go into the back, pour some of Madge’s discarded chamomile tea into a Styrofoam cup, and present it with a flourish to the unsuspecting customer. Sometimes it wouldn’t even be tea at all, but coffee or chicken broth or, once, some Diet Coke. The customer would take a tentative sip and then regard Fern with disbelieving eyes, declaring themselves cured of whatever ailed them: tendinitis, athlete’s foot, heartbreak, loneliness. Of course, they’d believed it because Fern wanted them to. And Fern could get anything she wanted.
Anything but Nor’s father. For reasons Fern couldn’t comprehend, Quinn Sweeney was impervious to her powers.
A descendant of the island’s original port master, Quinn Sweeney was handsome and well-liked for his gentle temperament. He had an aptitude for classical piano, for which he’d received a full scholarship from a reputable music school far away from Anathema Island. While in high school, Quinn had spent Saturdays working alongside his mother at the Sweet and Savory Bakery and Sundays playing the pipe organ for several churches throughout the archipelago. Twice a month, he volunteered to teach music lessons to disadvantaged children.
Nor always wondered what he must have thought when Fern Blackburn suddenly began starring in his dreams at night. Fern Blackburn, the girl who slept in the back of the class. Fern Blackburn, the girl with low-slung jeans and exposed hip bones, whose loose-fitting tank tops barely covered the sides of her breasts. It was only a matter of time before he’d found himself approaching her front door. Had he any idea why he winced at each crunch of gravel beneath his furtive footsteps, or why the back of his neck was slick with sweat? And when she’d greeted him by placing her mouth on his, was he wondering what he was doing there at all?
Before Fern, Quinn Sweeney had always dated nice girls. Girls with shiny ponytails and straight teeth. Girls who came from respectable families and dreamed of pink prom dresses and white stretch limousines. Girls who’d left him panting with gentlemanly desire because he was afraid to touch them, afraid to ask, and afraid to question for fear he’d offend them. Those nice girls had never climbed on top of him and huskily asked, “What do you want?” or whispered, “Tell me how to please you,” their breath hot in his ear.
For three days, Quinn and Fern remained locked in her bedroom in the Tower, consumed entirely with each other’s mouths, hands, fingers, and tongues. During the few moments when Fern had allowed him to sleep, she’d traced his handsome features with her fingers, as if laying claim to him.
But at the end of those three days, Quinn Sweeney left. Just like all the others before him. And the next time they saw each other, the only sign Quinn gave that there had been anything between them was a deep flush that spread across his cheeks.
Quinn Sweeney left the island right after he gave his commencement speech and five months before Fern would give birth to Nor. After college, he’d gone on to a marginally successful career in music composition. He had a lovely wife — more kind than she was beautiful — and he never forgot to send his mother a birthday gift. And like all the other fathers before him, Quinn Sweeney never acknowledged the fact that he had fathered a child with a Blackburn daughter.
Rona Blackburn’s curse was an impenetrable shield, and try as she might, Fern could not break through it. For years, Quinn Sweeney remained immune to Fern’s charismatic powers. But history had a funny and terrible way of repeating itself. The terrible truth was that Fern had fallen in love with Quinn. Desperately wanting him to love her back, a Blackburn woman once again found herself reaching for black magic.
When Nor was nine years old, Fern dragged her once again to the roof of Madge’s shop. With the brightened stars burning yellow on her skin, Fern stared across the ocean surrounding their little island and called his name. She called for him over and over again until her sallow skin had glowed purple in the cold.
Nor sat huddled with her hands over her ears and watched her mother carve his name into her skin, just like Rona once had, hoping the wicked sacrifice of her own blood would add potency to her spell.
Nor watched her mother’s blood inch its way across the roof, then stop. Weakened and defeated, Fern slumped to the ground as Nor breathed a shaky sigh of relief. Perhaps the madness was finally over. And then Fern looked at her — stared at her — with a terrible smile spreading across her wan face. “Why must it be my blood that’s spilled,” she mused aloud, “when it could just as easily be yours?”
Nor screamed in pain when the skin on the back of her hands began peeling away. Blood seeped out from under her fingernails and oozed from the corners of her eyes. Nor wiped frantically at her face, smearing blood across her cheeks. Her skin began to tear open at her wrists and elbows, like a rag doll splitting at the seams.
I’m dying, Nor thought. A sticky film coated the back of her throat, and breathing became difficult. Unconsciousness fell over her like a shroud. She could faintly make out the sound of Madge stumbling onto the roof, pleading for Fern to let Nor go. And then, when Nor was certain her mother never would, when death, in fact, seemed inevitable, Fern herself collapsed.
Nor gulped fresh air into her lungs. Madge ripped off her sweater and pressed it against Nor’s wounds. A red stain spread across the wool. The roof beneath Nor was slick and wet with blood, but whether it was her mother’s blood or her own, she couldn’t tell. At that moment, it seemed there was nothing in Nor’s world but blood and pain.
Vega carried the unconscious Fern downstairs to the couch in the back room, where she slept for three days straight. As the rest of them sat vigil, Nor made her own recovery, tucked safely away in her little closet. Her skin slowly stitched itself back together, leaving only pale pink scars along her wrists and elbows. Nor was also left with a memory of when her mother was willing to sacrifice her. For the first time, she wondered how much pain Fern would be willing to inflict to get what she wanted. She wondered if Fern, in fact, enjoyed the pain of others.
And then, in the early morning of the third day —
A crash in the other room startled Nor awake. She yelped when her own door flew open. Her mother, wild-eyed and terrifying, tore into the closet room and began tossing clothes into a ratty old suitcase.
Nor watched in stunned silence. “What are you doing?” she dared to ask. She hesitantly reached into the suitcase and made an awkward attempt to organize the mess within.
Fern slapped Nor’s hands out of the way. “It finally worked,” she hissed. “I’ve made him come back for me.” Fern slammed the suitcase closed.
Nor followed her mother into the shop, her palms sweating and her heart pounding fast in her chest. Everyone else was asleep, and the metallic glow from the headlights of a car parked outside cast their faces in a sickly yellow hue. Nor gazed at Madge’s sleeping face, and that was when it hit her. Tears choked her words. “Do we have to leave right now? Can I say good-bye first? To Madge? To Savvy?”
But when she turned around, all she saw was her mother escaping through the front door. In a voice suddenly falsely sweet, Fern called out a greeting to the person in the car waiting for her.
Nor tripped over her feet in her haste to follow. She could see that it was a man in the car, his posture stiff and unnatural. From that distance, what Nor couldn’t see were the parts of her that had come from him — the slope of her nose, the shape of her mouth. He had blond hair, like her mother. Nor’s hair was dark and thick, like Judd’s.
Without another word, Fern took Nor’s father away from her, racing toward the ferry dock as if the island might lock itself down before Fern could make her exit.
Nor wasn’t sure what to do next. So she waited. She waited for the dust of the retreating car to settle. She waited for the ferry to pull away and for its bright lights to fade into the dark.
She waited, and with her little heart breaking, she thought of all the time she spent waiting — waiting for someone to notice her, waiting for someone to care whether she was sick or hungry. Or scared.
Finally, from the opposite direction, she saw a tiny pinprick of light approach. It grew larger and larger until she recognized it as the glow from the end of a pipe.
A formidable woman peered down at Nor. “Well, let’s go then, girlie,” she said.
Nor sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Where are we going?”
“Home.”
“Home?”
“Yes. Apothia’s got your room all ready for you.”
“I have a room?” Nor asked, surprised.
Judd harrumphed. “Of course you have a room. It’s been waiting for you for almost ten years. I think that’s about long enough, don’t you?”
Nor nodded and placed her tiny hand in her grandmother’s large calloused one. And that was when Nor realized that someone else had been waiting as well.
But this time, that someone else had been waiting for her.