Chapter 28
Dahlia shook off her shock as townspeople took their seats. “It’s okay! It’s okay! Do they have laptops to check out here?”
Numbly, Talula shook her head. “No…but, we can print out the presentation at the library computers.” Hecate bless the cloud.
“Great idea.” Dahlia hopped around on her feet, amping herself up for the crisis. “I’ll do that. You need to show your face here.”
“But my speech…” Talula could actually feel bile in her throat.
Dahlia stilled. Then she let out a big breath. The kind of breath someone lets out right before they’re about to give someone else (Talula) really bad news. She braced her palms on Talula’s shoulders and let her have it. “You’re going to have to improvise.”
Talula’s eyes widened in horror.
“Please take your seats,” the moderator called.
“I’ll tell the moderator about the change of plans.” Dahlia squeezed Talula’s shoulders. “Go sit down where people can see you. Show them you’re not afraid.”
With that, Dahlia darted away. Talula scooped up her things and walked down the aisle. She sat where she’d have a good view of everyone who came to speak at the microphone. She applied her fancy lip balm, hoping for a spark of placebo magic. So far, nothing.
“Can’t you just conjure that thing here?” Simon hissed as he sat down by Talula’s feet.
“Maybe.” Talula reached for her power and tried to focus, but dozens upon dozens of eyes kept flicking over to her, staring at her and whispering. Her concentration shattered, she whispered, “There’s too many people here who might see something. I can’t focus.”
Simon whined stressfully.
“Good evening.” The moderator, a gray-haired woman in her fifties, turned steely eyes on the auditorium.
A fraught silence fell over the crowd. “As this is a special town hall regarding a time-sensitive matter, we’d like to open up the floor to our community.
We’ll allow up to three minutes for anyone who wants to speak about the matter of the Blue Moon Café’s Samhain festival.
After that, council members will vote. Any uncourteous or uncivil behavior will result in immediate ejection from the town hall. That’s why Jeff’s here.”
The moderator gestured to an elderly man in a polo shirt sitting at the edge of the stage. He shook his cane menacingly at the audience. “I was in the Navy!”
The moderator continued, “Please line up at the microphone and wait to be called.”
The tense quiet splintered with the crowd’s murmurs, the air thick with anger unspent. Talula gripped her seat with white knuckles as people lined up at the mic.
In the pro-Samhain group, some voices of reason made Talula want to do grateful cartwheels.
“Samhain brings food, art, and cultural celebrations right to our backyard,” said Talula’s high school English teacher. “It encourages our children, and heck, even our adults, to keep a kind, open mind.”
“I thought that Samhain was evil,” said Josie steadily.
Talula hadn’t seen the young woman since that memorable moment at the farmers’ market.
“But I decided to learn more about it, and it’s really not.
It brings the town together for a beautiful fall celebration.
I think we live and let live. Samhain isn’t hurting anybody. I’m sorry I ever thought it did.”
“If you don’t like Samhain, no one is making you go!” said Muriel, Pine Hollow’s white-haired head librarian. “It’s a free event that enriches our community. If we wanted to throw a cheese festival, would the lactose-intolerant have a right to shut the event down? Of course not!”
“Banning Samhain would severely limit growth potential for so many of our wonderful small business owners and even entrepreneurs-to-be, which directly translates into growth for the entire community,” Anna argued ferociously.
“Also.” Emilio leaned over his wife’s shoulder to speak into the mic. “There will be five bounce houses this year.”
In the anti-Samhain group, there were quite a few passionate outcries that turned Talula’s stomach with worry and sent Simon into muttered tirades about “idiocracies.”
“How can the town sanction nonsensical, cultish practices on the taxpayers’ dollar?” snarled one man.
“I’d like to point out that Samhain is not a city-funded event,” the moderator commented. “Taxpayers only pay for maintenance of the grounds, but the space is available for anyone to use so long as they apply and pay for a permit.”
“So we pay for the maintenance of the place where satanists wreak havoc on our town?”
The moderator, grimacing, replied, “I must point out that you also pay for maintenance of the same space that’s used for the antique car show and the Easter egg hunt.”
“That’s fine. That’s the American way,” the man said smugly. Cheers erupted from the anti-Samhain sections of the audience. The moderator opened her mouth, then closed it, a vein in her forehead visibly throbbing.
“Samhain takes up space that would be better suited for a more wholesome cultural experience,” said one woman Talula recognized from the Magic Box protests.
“Yes, small businesses benefit from having a special event dedicated to the community, but why does it have to be so wrapped up in a backwards religion? Couldn’t we replace the event with a harvest festival and get the same results? ”
And, of course, some comments left even the moderator speechless.
“Samhain never has any fireworks, and I think that’s lame,” said a teenager who worked at the grocery store.
“The county prohibits fireworks,” the moderator pointed out. “We’re in a wildfire zone.”
“Still,” he said, shrugging. “Pretty lame.”
Kristen’s speech made Talula grit her teeth so hard, her jaw muscles spasmed.
Smiling serenely, Kristen began, “Businessman and philanthropist W. Clement Stone once said, ‘Be careful the environment you choose, for it will shape you; be careful the friends you choose, for you will become like them.’ ”
A few amens rippled through the crowd. Talula felt her insides turn to lead—she’d forgotten how good Kristen had been at Speech and Debate.
“The people we choose to surround ourselves with define who we are. Take a look around, and you’ll see Pine Hollow—good, hardworking neighbors who know right from wrong.
But then, I think of Samhain and the people it brings, and I wonder, who are they?
We’re having this discussion because we know the answer.
Samhain attracts bad seeds, people whose values and lifestyles we’d never tolerate.
George Washington wrote, ‘Bad seed is a robbery of the worst kind: for your pocketbook not only suffers by it, but your preparations are lost and a season passes away unimproved.’ Banning Samhain will keep the bad seeds out so our community can grow to new heights. Thank you.”
Thoughtful murmurs broke out as Kristen returned to her seat. Talula could’ve sworn she heard Simon swear, “She’s getting the earwig curse.”
Finally, when Dahlia emerged from the back of the auditorium with a stack of hastily stapled presentations, Talula knew her time had come. While Dahlia subtly passed printouts to the audience members, the moderator turned directly to Talula. “Would a Samhain organizer like to speak?”
Talula swallowed. She stood. “Yes, ma’am.”
Each step Talula made toward the nearest microphone felt like a gallows march. She tried to stay calm, even as unhelpful thoughts ricocheted in her brain.
Talk slowly, but not too slowly.
Don’t throw up. No matter what.
Should I call out all the arguments everyone made against Samhain? No…no, I’ll sound incoherent.
Do I have pit stains? Don’t check! They’re all looking at you!
DO. NOT. THROW UP.
The mic appeared. It was time. A stack of papers was forced into her hands—it was the printed presentation.
Emilio gave her a fortifying nod, then crept back to his seat.
Talula turned, angling herself so she had a view of both the audience and the city council members.
Though only the council members would be voting on Samhain’s cancellation, she wanted to try to connect with the town as a whole.
Even if facing them like this made Talula even sweatier.
She sent a quick prayer to Mithra, Ma’at, and whoever else was listening and in a merciful mood.
“Whenever you’re ready, Ms. Smith,” the moderator said evenly.
Talula took a deep breath and looked down at her printout.
“For years, Samhain has defined the autumn season in Pine Hollow,” she said, her voice wavering. “Bringing together our community and directly supporting small businesses and charitable…I mean nonprofit—”
“Who brought their pitchforks?” a deep, assholey voice called out. Laughter bubbled up from the crowd. Talula felt it like a punch in the gut.
“Hey, witch girl! Get out of our town and keep your weird shit to yourself!”
More jeers followed, but they blurred together in Talula’s ears. White-hot fury filled her chest.
“What did I say about civility in this town hall?” The moderator’s voice cut through the din. “Anyone who says another disrespectful word will be removed.”
Jeff cracked his knuckles for emphasis.
Talula tried to focus on the words on the page, but they started to swim in red-tinged vision. She felt humiliated, belittled, angry, hurt—
Talula spotted Dahlia in the crowd, in the back near the auditorium doors. Both her hands were clasped in front of her mouth in the shape of a ramshackle prayer. Then Talula remembered Dahlia’s words.
Show them where the anger is coming from, show them the love, maybe they’ll want to listen.
Show them the love.
As she stared at Dahlia, something bloomed deep in Talula. A warm certainty that went on forever as she watched Dahlia’s worried, wonderful face.
She took a steadying breath, then pocketed her printout. “People of Pine Hollow, let me start over and introduce myself.”
Talula let the auditorium, the moderator, and the city council fall away. She spoke only to Dahlia. Talula felt her body relax, her mouth finding an improbable smile.