Invoking Nonna

Sweet Candy Press

Olympia Washington USA

2017

Invoking Nonna

Sage Adderley-Knox

Second printing

ISBN-978-0-9897098-4-2

Copyright © 2017 by Sage Adderley-Knox

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author at the address below.

Sage Adderley-Knox

PO Box 13201

Olympia, WA, 98508

www.sageadderley.com

www.sweetcandypress.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover / interior layout & design by Bradley Knox (SUBATOMIC)

This book is for my grandmothers, Emily Zampacota and Carol Nonie Sylvester. I miss you both dearly and feel closer to you as each day goes by. Your roots continue to keep me grounded and I know you both walk alongside me on this journey called life.

High Priestess

Between dark and light, The veil lifts — she speaks to you, Hidden worlds revealed.

The Fourth Face of The Goddess, Gale Perrigo Hamby

Table of Contents

Cover

Title

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

1992, Maggie

Laura

Ruby

Maggie

Bite Your Tongue

In Your Eyes

1976, Sophia

Maggie

Gillian

Maggie

Memory Lane

Gillian

Maggie

Gillian

Maggie

Laura

Two Weeks Later, Maggie

No Turning Back

1976, Sophia

Maggie

Gillian

Maggie

1976, Sophia

Maggie

Gillian

1976, Sophia

Maggie

Unknown Messenger

Maggie

1976, Sophia

Maggie

Laid to Rest

Sisters in the Craft

1976, Laura

Maggie

Ruby

1976, Laura

Maggie

Thank you

Coming Soon

Prologue

If you can imagine two witches living under the same roof, but neither acknowledging the other’s practice of witchcraft, then you’ll be able to get a glimpse into my life. My name is Maggie, and I am a teenage witch. My mom, Laura, is also a solitary witch, but we don’t talk about it. I know it sounds weird and maybe a bit impossible, but we pull it off.

I noticed things here and there growing up. My mom burned a lot of incense and lighted many candles while mumbling something unrecognizable under her breath. I didn’t question it all too much. I mean, burning incense isn’t that odd, nor is burning candles. What caught my attention the most was the type of incense she burned, and the meditative state in which she stood above the candle to whisper her incantations. My mother frequently used round charcoal tablets in a brass burner to ignite her incense. She burnt an herbal resin blend, and it bellowed thick smoke. I don’t think the other kids at school had moms who did this.

If that wasn’t enough to draw a little suspicion, the manmade circle of large rocks she created in the backyard was an eyebrow-raiser. It was amazing how neither of us ever spoke about the nights she would fill her bed tray with candles, a bowl of water, incense, a hand-bound journal, lighter, and head to the dark circle. Oh, and the wine. We can’t forget how she would shimmy out of the door, holding a wine bottle in one hand while balancing the wine glass and supplies on the bed tray in the other.

When I heard the wooden door shut behind her, I would turn off the light and peer out of the laundry room to get a good look at what exactly was going on down there.

She had four citronella candles on stakes posted at four equal points in the circle to represent the elements: Earth, Air, Fire, and Water. During the cold months, she would light a fire in the center pit she had dug out with a large shovel in the summer heat.

It was pitch black outside, and I could only see the bright flickering from the candles and my mom’s shadow gliding around, then stopping at each elemental post. She had a thick stump in the center of the circle. When I could no longer see movement, I would imagine that she was sitting on the stump reading, writing, and drinking her red wine.

As much as I was curious, I was also a bit envious. Something deep down in my stomach wanted to be participating in whatever enchanting ritual that was happening in the back yard. But, we never spoke of this.

My mother would come back inside hours later, reeking of a campfire. Her cheeks were rosy from the heat, and her sweaty hair stuck on her forehead. She would return each item from her tray back to its original place and excuse herself to bed.

We lived in a secluded area that was flooded with massive pine trees. If you wanted to dance in a circle and chant to the spirits, it was the place to do it and not be noticed. Our country home sat on an acre of land in a small town called Hawthorne. The two-bedroom home was just big enough for the two of us and didn’t have any modern conveniences such as central heating and air or a dishwasher.

We were both good about respecting each other’s privacy. I never asked too many questions if I felt I was stepping on her toes and she never poked her nose around in my personal space, which was my bedroom. Nevertheless, my curiosity did get the best of me one day.

I took the liberty of investigating my mother’s private cabinet in the kitchen when she was gone one afternoon. I arrived home from school to an empty house, and a note left on the table.

Apparently, there was a sub sandwich in the fridge for me and my mother would be back later from an appointment she had a few towns over. I walked to the fridge and opened the door to reveal the six-inch sub waiting for me to devour every last bite. I sat down at the table and unwrapped the sandwich. I lifted up the top bun to get a look at my dinner.

Layers of salami, pepperoni, and cheddar cheese were sprawled along the bottom bun. On top of that I found lettuce, green bell pepper, red onion slices, tomatoes, black olives, and tasty vinaigrette. I replaced the top bun and took a large bite of the sub. It was delicious and did not disappoint.

I sat munching away on the sub and glanced in the corner of the kitchen. In the nook between the doorway and my mom’s enormous china cabinet, sat a more modest piece. My mother had picked it up at an antique store downtown on our little Main Street. It was clear my mother had a vision for this cabinet. When she brought it home, she promptly took it to the back porch, scrubbed it from the inside out, and then cleansed it with a sage smudge stick.

Now, here it sat in the kitchen, with a vintage tablecloth covering the clean cabinet. On top, a beautiful candelabrum, small vase of flowers from our garden, different stones and gems, and photographs of family members. An ornate frame held a black and white photo of my grandmother, Sophia. She was a knockout, and the photo always made my heart sting. I wish I could have met her. She died unexpectedly the year before I was born. While my mom had never vocalized not to touch anything on the cabinet, its presence announced itself as a sacred space. Her sacred space.

I finished up my sandwich and wiped the crumbs on my fingertips onto the sides of my jeans. I walked over to the cabinet and kneeled down. Although I knew I was alone, I still cautiously looked around to see whether anyone was watching.

I lifted the cloth up and gently pulled on the doorknob, and it wouldn’t budge. I pulled a little harder, and with a loud pop the door creaked open. I laid the cloth over the opened door, and it cast a tent over the opening. I crouched underneath and took a look inside.

There were two shelves within the cabinet. The top shelf was crammed with two rows of books. The space between the top of the cabinet and the books was filled with more books lying horizontally. My eyes couldn’t focus on the titles printed on the book spines because there were so many.

The bottom shelf contained many plastic tubs in different sizes. I wanted to snap open the lids and rummage through the tubs, but I started getting a nervous feeling. I guess I knew I shouldn’t have been going through my mom’s private things.

I decided to grab a slender book from the center of the row and then promptly closed the cabinet door. I smoothed down the vintage cloth and sped into my bedroom and shut the door behind me. I felt my heart pounding and wasn’t sure why I was so scared. I mean, I know I took the book, but it wasn’t stealing because I would return it and, well, it was my kitchen, too.

I guess no matter how I tried to justify borrowing the book, I still felt uncomfortable that I couldn’t just ask my mom to read it like a normal mother and daughter would probably do.

I saw a bright twinkle from the doorway and turned to check it out, nothing was there. My heartbeat quickened. It was the second time that day I had noticed some type of sparkle appear. Weird. I walked to my blinds and bent them down to see whether my mom was outside. The driveway was still empty and the tall pine trees stood guard. I plopped onto my bed and took a good look at the book. It was royal blue with a giant pentacle that took up the entire front cover. I opened up the book to the first page and began to read.

The book introduced me to witchcraft. The author explained a bit of the history, the basics of Wicca, but also outlined rituals, altars, tools, holidays, and various incense mixtures to help get a novice witch started. It was pretty easy to follow along, and I found myself turning page after page as I absorbed a ton of information.

It debunked the myths of witchcraft linking to the devil or Satanism. It’s a beautiful religion that respects the earth and all living creatures. I connected to the idea of putting out into the universe what you wanted to receive. Thanking the elements for being in your life, and well, the magic was pretty cool, too.

I’m not sure how much time passed before I heard the crunching of car tires coming up our gravel driveway. I slammed the book shut and hid it underneath my pillow. I sat there listening as my mom shut the car door, walked down the gravel path to the front porch, and fumbled with her keys. It dawned on me that I had left a small mess on the kitchen table from eating the sub sandwich.

I got up and opened my door just as my mom entered through the front door. She was holding some grocery bags and a gallon of water.

Hey, where were you?

I walked over and took the plastic jug from her hands and walked into the kitchen. I set the water on the table and picked up my sub wrapper to toss in the trash. My eyes swept across the cabinet to make sure nothing was out of place.

I see you found the sandwich I bought for you.

Yeah, thanks. It was really good.

I took a seat at the table and watched as my mom unloaded the groceries. Everyone we knew said how much I looked like my mom, but I didn’t really see it. My mom was taller than me, and had naturally curly hair. We were both brunettes, but my hair was a bit darker. She was thinner than I was and had blue eyes.

I was curvy with hazel eyes, although most people thought they were just brown. When I cried or was sick, a beautiful green hue would mix with the brown. I wish my eye color would stay that way always.

I think people thought we looked so much alike because they never met my father. I favored him very much; we both had long faces, and matching Italian noses. Our lips were plump, and we shared almond-shaped eyes. Most people wouldn’t know that, however, because I hadn’t seen my father in almost twelve years. I was three-years-old when my parents split up. My mother went in one direction and my father in the other.

Well, I have some homework I should get started on. I’ll be in my bedroom, okay?

All right. My mom never looked up or stopped shelving the groceries.

I tucked my chair back under the table and went into my room. I shut the door behind me and wished it had a lock. It surely would come in handy right now.

I grabbed my backpack and sat on my bed. I sat cross-legged and placed the backpack in front of my lap, so it would shield the book as I read in case my mom opened up my door unannounced. Not that I thought she would, but I wanted to play it safe. I reached under the pillow and pulled out the large book. I ran my hands across the pentacle and opened it back up to where I had left off.

That day changed my life forever. I began studying about witchcraft and identifying as a witch. I felt the connection deep within my bones and wondered if something like this could be transferred down generations. Apparently, it was the one thing that presently connected me with my mother.

1992, Maggie

My mom dropped me off at school the next morning on her way to work. She owned a chocolate shop called Laura’s Confections. Mom had owned the store since I was in kindergarten. She found an old Victorian style home that was partially renovated and being rented as commercial space. The top floor would definitely not pass inspection, so it was kept off limits from everyone except the homeowner, Miss Sara. She was an elderly woman who always had her tiny dog with her. She took that yapping dog everywhere.

The bottom level of Miss Sara’s home was split up into two separate spaces. My mom rented one side and a local jeweler rented the other. Mom mostly ran the sweet shop herself, but on occasion, she would call in Sandy, a local grandma who rode