A hastily concocted love potion, born from jealousy, leaves
Dorian in a comatose state. The only remedy is a rare orchid that blooms just
once a year, fiercely protected by Liam and his werewolf pack. The coven's
acolytes are prohibited from entering the forest, yet the young apprentices
step forward, ready to embark on a journey that will challenge their loyalty
and bravery. Can they succeed?
Una poción de
amor hecha con prisa por celos pone a Dorian en un estado de coma. Y una rara
orquídea que florece solo una vez al año podría salvarle la vida, pero las
preciosas flores están ferozmente custodiadas por Liam y su manada de hombres
lobo. Los integrantes del Aquelarre tienen prohibida la entrada al bosque y los
jóvenes aprendices se ofrecen como voluntarios para realizar el viaje que
pondrá a prueba su lealtad y coraje. ¿Tendrán éxito?
My “home zone” is Southern Maryland, which has been
described by many as one of the most haunted areas in the country. Many tales
have been shared around childhood campfires over the years. Stories that sent
shivers down my spine even as flickering flames lent warmth to the telling.
Sotterly Plantation and Greenwell State Park are the source
of many of these stories. Ghostly nuns, deceased soldiers of bygone eras and
victims of not so accidental deaths are said to roam the buildings’ halls and
surrounding fields. A short jaunt up the road (as the crow flies) is the site
of the “blue dog” haunting where a mysterious ethereal canine is said to guard
the remains of his murdered master as he has for centuries. Add in Point
Lookout where the Union held Confederate prisoners in conditions that made
Andersonville look like an island vacation and you can see why the area has the
reputation it does.
Naturally, having grown up with these legends, they are in
one manner or another, incorporated into my writing. None stir my imagination
like the story of Moll Dyer, however, an accused witch from the late
1600s.
Although the historical proof of her existence is minimal,
we have a local county road named after her, and likewise a small stream.
There’s the rock purported to be where she breathed her last. Most researchers
miss the colonial letter describing her “countenance” in an unfavorable manner,
but we’re mostly left with legends. Oral tradition- once the only historical
record, and the basis of the old truism “where there’s smoke, there’s fire. How
apt is that for a tale of this nature?
Although there are some small deviations to the legend, most
oral traditions agree: Moll was an herbal healer and hermit. Most state her
origin was Ireland, although she likely arrived on a passenger ship from
England. She arrived on our shores single and unaccompanied and never married.
She preferred the company of the Native Americans to her European neighbors.
She dressed in a manner of lost affluence (threadbare clothes originally made
from the finest materials). She froze to death on the coldest night of 1697
after a citizen’s mob burned her small cabin to the ground believing her a
witch and the source of a blight on the land. She was found days later, draped
over a large rock with one hand raised to the heavens. Some say in prayer;
others say to curse the local citizenry. She was discovered by a young lad in
search of his missing cow.
So then, who was Moll Dyer? I won’t fabricate a correlation
between any segment of the legend and other past lives lived here. It’s
unnecessary to make her story more real. Her tragedy speaks to its own truth
and …perhaps that’s enough. My answer to the question is Moll’s truth, even if
intangible. Moll Dyer is everyone who’s faced injustice or been mocked for
being different; those scorned for their beliefs and tormented for living a
life true to themselves. She is anyone condemned at the court of public opinion
and castigated for their lack of popularity or political correctness. She’s the
embodiment of Sarah Goode of Salem fame, Anne Frank, John the Baptist, Joan of
Arc, Anne Boleyn, Rosa Parks and…well, the list goes on! Moll, the accused
witch, could be the patron saint of them all.
I believe Moll Dyer would be proud of her legacy, and that
she’d feel some measure of peace and exoneration from the tales being told of
her today. She was once used as a cautionary tale- a warning to little children
to behave, but no longer. Now we remember Moll whenever we’re bullied, accused
without cause or feeling friendless. Perhaps she gives us a twinge of
conscience when we are the ones doing the bullying? It warms my heart to think that
some good is our final inheritance from the tragedy of Moll Dyer.
David is a multiple
award-winning author, Army veteran, and graduate of UMUC. He’s a multi-genre
writer, and a member of the Horror Writers' Association, and the Science
Fiction & Fantasy Writers Association. When not writing, Dave enjoys
family, kayaking, fishing, hiking, hunting, winemaking, and woodcarving.
The air was crisp and cool, signaling the arrival of autumn.
The leaves had begun to turn to shades of fiery red and golden yellow, a
beautiful backdrop for the second weekend of October in the early nineteen
eighties. It was one of the last opportunities to sit around a campfire before
winter’s chill set in. Jack’s father had recently built a firepit in the
backyard, and a group of nine-year-old kids eagerly huddled around it, their
faces lit up by the dancing flames. They roasted marshmallows on sticks and
traded scary Halloween stories, trying to outdo each other with tales of ghosts
and ghouls. Jack, a lanky boy with unruly jet-black hair, couldn’t resist
sharing his classic story about the ghost that haunted the spooky house in the
woods.
However, Steve, his short blond friend, quickly protested,
declaring that they had all heard it countless times before. “Come on, Jack!
You told this story a gazillion times already.”
But Jack persisted, determined to give them all goosebumps
with his eerie storytelling skills. His face flushed with anger, and he was on
the verge of snapping at Steve, but Claire, a tomboy who hated girly clothes
and was known as the diplomat of their friend circle, stepped in. “Enough, you
two!” she scolded the boys, shaking her head. “Steve, if you find Jack’s story
boring, why don’t you tell a new story?”
“You tell a
story, smarty-pants!” Steve retorted with a sneer. Despite his tendency to
criticize others, he rarely had any original thoughts of his own to contribute.
His sharp tongue was often used to deflect attention from his lack of
creativity.
Claire’s voice
quivered as she spoke, “Okay. I’m going to tell you what I saw yesterday.” She
paused to take a deep breath before continuing, her eyes wide with fear of the
memory. “Grandma and I went to the Witch’s One Stop Shop, you know, in that
spooky house that used to be empty. And Marie’s mom, who works nearby, saw a
ghost there when she was walking home late one night.” The words hung in the
air, thick with tension.
“Come on,
Claire, you didn’t see a ghost, did you?” Steve cackled.
Claire replied
with a nervous tremor in her voice, “Of course not! It was in the middle of the
afternoon. But I’ve seen something that scared the daylights out of me.”
“What did you
see?” Jack asked, his interest peaking.
“When we went
into the store, there was a sign that said used organs for sale. And when the
woman came out of the back door, I could swear she was a real witch. She wore
black clothes, her hair in a messy bun, and she wore a black eyepatch over her right
eye.”
“That doesn’t
mean she’s a witch!” Charlie looked at Claire wide-eyed.
“No?” Claire
snapped. “She had bloody gloves on, and she just took them off and threw them
in the garbage.”
“Um…bloody
gloves?” Jack shivered. “You mean…if, as you said, she’s selling organs…”
“What?” Steve
whispered. “Like kidneys and livers and hearts kinda organs? Naw, it can’t be
true!”
“I guess so...and
what I saw made me think because I saw Marie’s mom leaving the store with a
small package in her hand that was smeared with blood,” Claire said, wringing
his fingers and taking a deep breath. “You guys know that Marie is very sick
and waiting for the right organ donor who can give her a kidney, right?”
“Jack let out a
heavy, sympathetic sigh. “Yes, poor Marie,” he muttered.
“I went to
visit her the other day,” Claire continued. “Marie was asleep, but her mom
insisted I wait for her to wake up. So, I sat in the living room and started
reading the book I got for Marie. But I couldn’t help overhearing Marie’s
parents talking in the kitchen. Her mom cried and said that there was still no
match for Marie and asked Marie’s dad what they were going to do. But then her
father got angry and shouted that if they couldn’t find a match soon, he’d have
to buy a kidney on the black market. He said there are plenty of organs for
sale; they just needed to find the right seller.”
