Where October Beckons

A waning gibbous illuminates the heavens. Foliage rustles while twigs snap under paws. Chilled air whistles as the wind rips red and orange leaves from their branches. A hand grips the hood of the cloak. The other clutches a lantern's handle. Light flickers with each boot step. Ahead, a crow caws.

Shadows dance at the sides of vision as the walk continues. Fireflies pursue shapes that vanish between the trees. The walk continues past decorated yards. Carved pumpkins with candles glow softly on porch steps. White sheets hang from barren trees, pretending to be ghosts. Painted cardboard cutouts dressed as headstones jut out of lawns. On top of a scarecrow, the black bird's call continues.

He hops from one leg to the other. Sharp, bright eyes stare, demanding urgency. Further down the path, it narrows, nearly disappearing into a canopy of sleeping timber. Twigs reach across catching on clothing. An owl hoots from interlocking branches resembling ribs; a chorus of howls unites somewhere in the distance. Caw. Caw. Caw, he croaks hoarsely.

Oil-slick wings beat, leading the way forward to a clearing. Three women gather in a small circle. They wear identical cloaks, their heads down, holding hands tightly. Salt surrounds them, and white and black candles are lit and placed between them. At the center of the circle sits a heavy cast-iron cauldron. Herbs smolder from it, wafting mugwort, sage, and vervain.

Scents tantalize. A comforting haze beckons "closer". They separate, leaving space. An invitation without words. Hands join once more, closing the circle. Earth, says one, ground rumbling at their feet. Wind says the next, blowing the hoods from their faces. Fire says the other; the logs flare beneath the large pot. "Water", a silent instruction, then spoken aloud. Tears pour from the coven's eyes.