Vika pushed through the low branches and stepped into the corner of the orchard where the land sloped toward the old boundary fence. Ben stood before the large apple tree at the corner of the boundary marker, hands on his hips staring at it. Fallen petals lay at his feet.
The tree was in two pieces, split down the middle as if struck by lightning. The two halves twisted away from each other like something had forced its way through from the inside. The exposed wood was pale and clean.
“Can you feel that?” Ben asked.
Vika stilled, searching for whatever it was she was supposed to feel. She crouched and touched the splintered wood. The surface was warm.
“There is magic here,” Ben said. “It’s like when Marcus opened the rifts.”
“What?” Vika said, alarmed.
“No, no,” Ben held up his hand. “It’s not a rift, but the magic feels similar. It’s smoky.”
Vika nodded as though that made sense. “Dahlia’s magic?”
Ben ran a hand through his hair. “Maybe. That tree is one of the original boundary markers.”
“The ones tied to the binding spell holding Dahlia here? It’s holding the knot in place?”
He nodded.
Vika frowned.
A gust of wind pushed through the orchard. The petals on the ground lifted and swirled into the air.
Vika thought she heard shouting, faint as if carried on the breeze.
Ben stiffened.
Between the broken rows of trees, figures flickered, blurred shapes of men moving through the branches. They weren’t solid. They looked like shadows or images thrown from a projector.
The smell of woodsmoke drifted through the air. A figure stepped forward through the trees. Tall, in a worn brown suit, he didn’t flicker. He looked almost solid, and when he spoke, he looked right at Vika.
“Witch.” His face twisted with fury.
“Ben,” she breathed.
“I see him.”
The man’s eyes scanned the orchard as if looking for someone, and Vika couldn’t tell if he was seeing the past or the present.
“Cunningham.” Ben’s voice dropped to a whisper.
The figure spun toward Ben, surprise sharpening his features.
The ground beneath their feet trembled as the ghost vanished into the split tree.
When he was gone, the orchard snapped back to stillness. There wasn’t even the hint of a breeze.
Ben exhaled slowly, looking at the broken boundary marker. “The knot is slipping. We don’t have much time before it unravels and more of the past seeps through.”
They waited, and when there was no further activity at the boundary marker, they walked back through the orchard, each in their own thoughts.
Cunningham’s ghost had called her a witch. Though Vika wasn’t a witch, Dahlia most certainly was. She was more witch than orchard bride, and that distinction felt important to Vika. She wanted to give Dahlia her identity back.
Back at the wyrd knot, the blossoms from the early bloom were falling like snowflakes, the air thick with the faint, sweet scent of apple blossom.
A burst of laughter floated across the orchard. A group of tourists wandered between the rows, phones raised, snapping pictures of the falling petals.
One woman spun slowly in place. “It’s just like the legend! The Orchard Bride blessing the trees.”
Vika scowled at them.
As the group made its way through, saying they were headed to the barn for snacks. Something tugged at the edge of her thoughts.
“That’s the problem,” she said quietly.
Ben glanced at her. “The tourists?”
“Yes, always. But I meant the story.”
She gestured toward the orchard.
“Everyone thinks Dahlia’s some tragic bride wandering around looking for a lost lover. It’s not true.”
Ben shrugged slightly. “Most ghost stories have gaps.”
Vika walked slowly around the wyrd knot, studying the fallen petals scattered across the ground.
“Dahlia wasn’t a bride,” she said. “She was a witch. A land witch, probably. Someone who knew how to work with the magic here and probably bound herself to the orchard to protect it. She was a victim, her sister too. Those men took everything from her. If the knot is tied to her magic… then it’s tied to her story too.”
Ben frowned.
“What are you getting at?”
“I think we need to squash this Orchard Bride nonsense and give Dahlia her story back. I think part of healing the wyrd knot is healing Dahlia, and that means telling the truth about what happened to her.”
A breeze moved through the branches. Ben’s head snapped up. “Wait.”
He pressed his palm to the twisted roots.
“Say it again,” he said.
Vika put her hand next to his. “I think we need to tell the truth about what happened to her.”
The wood hummed faintly under her hand.
Ben stared at her. “Do you feel that? That…helped.”
Vika’s widened. “The knot agrees with me?”
Ben grinned. “Looks like it.”
They both turned at the crunch of footsteps. The Falks were coming down the row.
Mrs. Falk wringed her hands. “Something strange just happened up near the barn,” she said breathlessly. “People said they smelled smoke, and one man swears he saw someone standing in the trees. I don’t understand what’s happening.”
Ben and Vika exchanged a glance.
Mr. Falk gestured helplessly at the orchard around them. “I know we’ve been leaning into the ghost story a bit, but this is getting out of hand.”
“You understand this land better than anyone around here,” Mrs. Falk said to Ben. “Can you tell us what’s going on?”
Ben hesitated.
“The orchard houses something called a wyrd knot,” he said carefully. “A place where… older forces in the land intersect.”
Mr. Falk blinked. “Is that bad?”
“No,” Ben said. “But, this knot is unraveling, which explains the odd things happening around here. We need to heal the knot.”
Mr. Falk rubbed the back of his neck. “So what happens if it… unravels?”
“More of the past will seep through. It could get dangerous.”
Silence fell over the small group.
Finally Mrs. Falk spoke. “Can you fix it?”
Ben glanced at Vika. “Yes, I think so.”
Vika nodded.
Relief washed across Mrs. Falk’s face. “Do whatever you need to.”
Ben crouched beside the knot, thinking. “If the knot was bound with Dahlia’s magic originally, we’ll need to work with that same thread,” he said slowly.
“A restoration spell,” Vika said.
“Something like that.”
Ben stood again.
“But spells like that need anchors.”
“Anchors?” Mr. Falk repeated.
“Objects tied to the original magic,” Ben said.
Vika thought of Dahlia standing among these trees a century ago, speaking words that tied the land together.
“We need something of hers,” she said.
As if hearing her name, a faint shimmer moved between the rows of blossoms.
Dahlia stood there for only a moment, pale and uncertain, watching them. Then she was gone again.
Ben exhaled slowly.
“Something of Dahlia’s,” he repeated.
“And I have a feeling I know where we might find it.”
Chapter 9