Eva
“Hello, darling,” Riley says in a theatrical transatlantic accent, waving at me from the reflection in the dirty floor length mirror. She’s wearing one of my great-grandmother’s old pillbox hats and a pair of her satin elbow-length gloves.
“Bring that one down with you,” I tell her, pointing at the box overflowing with old dresses and accessories from a by-gone era.
I’ve always loved this attic, even as a kid, when the house belonged to my grandma.
No matter how many times I poke around up there, I always discover a new treasure.
Old maps or magazine clippings from notable events.
We even found a telegram from the Titanic once.
Living in an old house passed down from multiple generations is both a blessing and a curse.
Important magickal relics often sit right next to piles of junk no one ever had the time to get rid of.
“Aha! There it is.” I spot the dusty old box in the corner of the attic with ‘MABON’ scrawled across the side. I grab it and climb down the rickety stairs behind Riley.
“Your great-grandma had impeccable style.” Riley pulls out clothes and accessories and lays them out on the kitchen table. She shakes out the dark brown fur stole, and a cloud of dust explodes into the air.
“She really did.” I put on a pair of canary-yellow cat-eye sunglasses and a silk scarf with colorful psychedelic swirls. They smell like stale air and cedar, but I don’t care.
I know we're often accused of not taking our responsibilities as witches seriously, but as the veil thins, memories of past generations seem to come to life.
It feels like I could reach out and touch my grandmother and great-grandmother through the mantle between realms. Even though we look ridiculous, Mabon is the perfect day to remember them.
Grandma Iris used to dress me in things just like these, telling me stories of posh nightclubs, car rides, and the glamorous life of a working witch in the '60s.
We spent every afternoon together after school.
She'd greet me at the door with a wild look in her eye, and I’d know we were about to be up to no good.
The memory brings a smile and reopens a painful wound deep in my chest at the same time.
“Look at this.” Riley pulls out a long thin cigarette holder. “What a fucking legend!” She holds it up to her mouth and pretends to take a drag.
I clip on a pair of massive costume jewelry earrings. The cluster of overly bright stones immediately weighs down my earlobes.
“Dollface, shall we decorate the altar?” I ask Riley with the worst old Hollywood accent ever heard.
Opening the Mabon box, I find more memories tucked inside.
Deep orange ribbons tied into looping bows, pinecones with googly eyes glued on, acorns, and handfuls of fragile dried leaves.
Riley looks out of place, her formal accessories at odds with the homemade decorations she’s putting on the wooden mantle over the fireplace in my cozy living room.
At the bottom of the box is a bronze scale.
A perfect representation on the holiday.
Two small trays hang from thin chains attached to a tarnished metal beam teetering on the fulcrum in the center.
On one end of the beam, a moon is carved into the center, an inverted triangle on the other.
The framework is bent, so that the scales slightly favor the moon.
As it should be, my grandmother would always say.
I stand back and take in our masterpiece.
“Not too shabby.” The garland of ribbons hangs gracefully.
Candles line the ledge, casting tiny spotlights of golden light up the wall.
The smell of cinnamon sticks tucked between pinecones and bright orange leaves tickles my nose.
The only things missing are the cut flowers, apples, and the smell of something baking in the oven.
“I forgot to tell you, the pumpkin bread will have to wait. I promised my aunt I’d help her with class today.” I puff out my lip and scrunch up my eyebrows. “And then I’m meeting Grant for a drink.”
She turns on her heel to glare at me. I put my hands up in self-defense.
“Embrace the season of balance.” I twirl my hands toward the altar we just set up for the holiday.
“Don’t use witchcraft against me. I’ll put a hex on you,” she jokes. We should honestly take this more seriously—the weird fog and closed leylines diminishing our magick are major problems, but Riley and I cope with it in our own way.
“Come on, let’s go grab the marigolds. They are extra bright this year!” I pull her toward the backyard. She snags her glass of wine on the way out, signaling she has no intention of cutting flowers. Riley’s presence is more moral support than assistance.
Gathering flowers and herbs from the garden is an important part of celebrating Mabon.
The late summer blooms represent endurance, a reminder to stay strong as the light begins to fade.
Grandma Iris would wear a giant floppy sunhat and bright gardening gloves.
As we worked our way through the backyard, she’d take the opportunity to tell me the magical properties of everything we came across.
Each year, she’d remind me how the magick was stronger when the leylines flowed freely when she was a young witch. Now, there are so many unanswered questions. Far more questions than answers.
“Grandma, why did the leylines close up?” I would ask.
“No one knows, but they will open again some day. Have hope, sweet girl.”
Her deeply wrinkled smile never waivered, but the conversation would always go quiet after I brought up the leylines.
The girls in the class and I all hunch over our lists, engrossed in the Mabon gratitude activity.
Mabon, the season of gratitude:
Riley
Mom
Paige
Coffee
My house
The Bitter End
Potted plants
Wildflowers
Reality TV
Carbs
Cozy blankets
Old books
Truck
Catrick Swayze (the cat I WILL win over)
Grant The old Grant
Looking at my list forces me to acknowledge just how much Grant has changed recently. Some days I’m not sure I recognize him.
The guy who wants to climb the corporate ladder is so different from the Grant I’ve known for the last four years.
We used to hike and travel, but now he stresses when he misses a single day of work.
I’m still trying to figure out if this is a phase or if it’s who he is becoming… and how long I should wait to find out.
Maybe it’s just the holiday, but it feels like I’m holding onto a memory instead of building a future with Grant. I push aside the thought and focus on the class.
“Ladies, let’s set aside our lists for now. After class, we will bury them in the herb garden out back. Let’s talk about our next lesson for tonight, relic magick.”
The girls dutifully fold up their lists and pull out their journals to take notes.
“Relics, objects once imbued with power, are capable of amazing feats.” Paige pulls a few items from her bag and lines them up along the front desk.
A diamond ring, a handheld mirror with a carved silver handle, a tarnished thimble, and finally, the antler of a young buck with two points.
“All of these objects hold an ancient power that must be used very carefully, for their magick is finite, and once it’s gone, it’s gone forever.”
Because of my floundering magick, I’ve always relied on relics.
The coven group chat hasn’t stopped talking about them since the elder’s power has started weakening.
Everyone agrees, the relics should be used as a last resort.
No one dares say out loud what we all fear.
They could be the only things left with any magick if we continue down this path.
Paige catches my eye across the room and taps her watch. I pull my phone out of my dress pocket and check the time. A text from Grant pops up on the lock screen.
Grant
Can’t wait to see you.
His sweet message eases the disappointment from leaving class early to meet up with him for drinks. I love these girls, they are so fun and optimistic about their future magick, it fills me with hope as well.
I slip out quietly, not wanting to disrupt the class. I’m halfway to my truck when Paige catches up to me.
“Blessed Mabon,” she says with a hug.
“I’m sorry I have to leave early, I shouldn’t have double-booked myself.”
“These things happen. Mabon has a way of sneaking up on all of us.” She smiles at me with a look like she's keeping a secret.
“I don’t have time for your subliminal messages, I’m going to be late. Text me!” I call over my shoulder, opening the door to my truck.
“But I can’t convey my spooky tone through a text!”
“Try using emojis!” I yell over the loud engine.
Paige's words echo in my head for the entire twenty-minute drive to the Westport bar Grant insisted on.
I turn right at the giant wall of white fog blocking the road to Holloway.
The literal road block is an ominous reminder of all the things happening around me that are out of my control.
The messy stack of paperwork for the café catches my eye from the passenger seat, almost taunting me with its banal inevitability.
I blow out a heavy breath, trying to release the stress building between my shoulder blades.
Instead, I focus on the winding roads toward the coast. Tiny glimpses of the ocean tease me here and there.
I love this drive and watching the tall evergreen trees play peek-a-boo with the Pacific Ocean.
I roll my window down and breathe in the pine and salty air. My jaw loosens and my shoulders relax. All my troubles blow away in the wind as I let the serenity of the moment completely surround me.
Only a few minutes late, I arrive at my destination.
From the outside, the restaurant is beautiful.
Strings of golden lights swing back and forth in the breeze over the parking lot.
Halved wine barrels overflowing with flowers hold up the posts connecting the lights.
I swipe on some lip gloss haphazardly as I make my way to the front door.
Inside, the restaurant is just as captivating. The lighting is low, but not too dark. It’s quiet but has enough chatter to not make it feel like a funeral home. Grant leans out of a booth in the bar and waves a friendly hello. I wave back and pick my way through the tightly packed tables.
I slide in across from him and grab the menu off the table. The list of appetizers is impressive and a personal favorite catches my attention. The thought of the delicious fig and goat cheese tartlets makes my mouth water. I’ve seen enough, and set the menu down.
In the center of the table sits an open bottle of white wine. Grant pours me a generous glass, his hand shaking slightly.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Everything is great,” he says breathlessly and sits back to take a long drink from his old-fashioned.
“Thanks for the wine.” I take a sip, skeptical of his response.
“I ordered your favorite.”
So, he does know my favorite wine. Then why did he order red at Papa Di Marcos? Part of me is still bitter about the pasta, but I silence the negative thoughts with another drink from my glass.
“You might be wonder—”
“Let’s get the goat cheese and fig tartlets,” I suggest, accidentally interrupting him. “I’m sorry, you go ahead.”
“Those sound good.” He looks around the bar and aggressively summons the waitress. At least he didn’t snap his fingers in the air to call her over.
“We’re also going to get the goat cheese thing,” he demands, his eyes sweeping over the menu.
His tone to the server grates on my nerves. He worked at a restaurant in college, and he would have hated it if someone spoke to him with that same tenor. Still, I hide my disdain behind a smile and my glass.
“And a water, please. Thank you.” I add the subtle apology for Grant’s brash treatment.
The waitress writes down the order and smiles at me, completely ignoring Grant.
“Where’s the restroom?” I ask, looking around.
“It’s near the back.” She points over her shoulder and retreats to the kitchen.
“Don’t go anywhere,” I joke, leaving him alone at the table again.
The bathroom is also classy, as expected.
Clean, beautiful lighting, and a tidy stack of thick paper towels on the counter to dry my hands.
I check myself in the mirror and wish I had picked something nicer to wear for dinner.
My end-of-summer sundress does not fit in here.
Grant is wearing a suit, and I showed up in floral print and strappy sandals.
He should have warned me, but it’s too late to do anything about it now.
The waitress is delivering food to our table when I return. “Goat cheese tartlets, and the crab cakes with extra spicy mayo.” Apparently, he ordered before I got here.
“Oh, uh. Did he tell you I’m allergic to crab?” I ask the server.
Grant always acts annoyed when I tell our servers about my shellfish allergy. Ironically, he thinks it’s insulting to insinuate they could mess up my food. “It’s fine. Dig in,” he says enthusiastically.
“I’ll double check with the kitchen,” the server responds with an understanding smile.
I’m starving and the fig appetizer is too tempting. I pop one in my mouth and my eyes roll back into my head. It is perfect. The creamy chevre, tangy balsamic glaze, and perfectly sweet fig jam are an exquisite combination on the thin flaky crust. I eat three in quick succession.
“As I was saying.” Grant wipes his hands on the cloth napkin and drops it on the table. “You might be wondering why I picked this place.”
“It’s a beautiful spot.”
“Tonight is a special night.”
I’m touched that he remembered tonight is Mabon. A thick swirl of jam and glaze lands right on my dress.
“So that is why… ”
Shit. This is going to stain. I dab at the stubborn splotch marring the front of my dress, right between my boobs.
“We could always do it in the spring. But I don’t want to wait.”
There is no way I can fix this. I pull my cardigan closed in front of me and secure a few of the buttons.
“What do you think, Eva?”
“Sure! Sounds good.” I nod, not exactly clear what I’m agreeing to.
“Perfect! Then I say we do it in January, that should give you plenty of time to plan a wedding.” With a huge smile, he downs the rest of his drink and snaps his fingers toward our server to order another.
This time it’s my hands that shake. What just happened?