A Witch’s Notebook

Delivering food as a side hustle is a family affair. It begins with wrangling our astonishingly fast and agile toddler. Her bouncing blond curls flew in the wind while eluding the grasp of mom, then dad. She laughed obnoxiously at our feeble attempts to catch her, and, with a look of fierce determination, took another lap through the house. This time, dad was hidden behind the couch and snatched her, while they both giggled uncontrollably. He asked her the magic words.

“Do you want to go for a ride?”

The toddler’s green eyes sparkled with excitement.

“Yay! Yay! Yay!”

The magic words also worked with the dogs, who immediately started jumping and “roo, roo, ROO!”-ing. So we packed up all our babies and started our evening adventure.

Two twenty-something’s, two large dogs, and a two-year-old in a minivan seem like a truly strange group of deliverers, but during the past year with COVID-19, the demand for delivery drivers had increased immensely. We had a system that worked fairly well for us. My husband drove and I ran the food. Quick, efficient, and safe.

The familiar chime of opportunity sounded from the delivery app just as we reached the end of our driveway. If we accepted this order, we’d be driving 15 miles outside of the city for $20. My partner shrugged his shoulders.

“May as well. It’s a nice night for a drive.”

Accept.

Navigation directed us to an odd, hole-in-the-wall restaurant located in the heart of our Midwestern city, not too far from our house in the suburbs. We all settled in as the van accelerated, windows down, with a warm breeze on the horizon. We felt most at ease on the road.

The shabby door looked ancient and creaked slowly as the weight of the wood shifted on its hinges. A rich aroma of cumin and fennel drifted lazily among the tables and few diners, so thick you could almost see vapors. Long ivy plants and intricately-woven tapestries crowded the small dining room. Finally, I noticed the small, wrinkled woman behind the counter with a mischievous look in her eye.

“You must be picking up for Verda.” She spoke softly, with the hint of a smile.

I nodded, “Yes.”

“Oh, yes. She’s ordered the same dish from me, once a year, for many years.” She said, handing me a brown paper bag with a red ribbon.

“Interesting.” I said thoughtfully. I thanked her and turned toward the door, wondering why the old woman shared that with me.

I situated myself in the passenger seat and forgot about the interaction almost immediately because the toddler was fussing, the dogs looked restless, and my husband was anxiously awaiting my return. I turned around in the seat and gave the little one some blueberries, her favorite, while we navigated to Verda’s countryside home.

The best parts of delivering as a family are the simple things. Excitement filled our hearts when we discovered a new road or a new song on a weird indie radio channel. Experiencing the weather during frigid snow storms or soggy spring days was an adventure itself. Although, the most magical part of the drive was always the sunset. Tonight, the light of the lemon-yellow sky transitioned from fiery orange to deep burgundy over an expanse of rolling green farmland, leaving us lost in contemplation.

Before I could completely pull my head out of the clouds, we were turning onto a graveled driveway lined with lush greenery. Honeybees rustled inside overgrown wildflowers, while a plethora of butterflies wafted along in the gentle breeze. The intoxicating smell of the largest rose bush I’d ever seen welcomed our arrival. To the right of the behemoth lay a perfectly-set flagstone path leading to the marble steps of an old colonial.

“Verda’s written directions,” said my partner. “She says, ‘The main house is unused, so please make your way to the cottage in the garden. Please knock once you’ve arrived.’” I jumped at the chance to explore this unique property and set off while the family waited in the van.

The path to the cottage was slightly hidden. Most of it was covered by that insanely large rose bush, and after a careful shifting of stems, I emerged, unharmed, onto a cleared pathway with a breath-taking view.

The warm smell of summer’s eve waltzed around the oasis like the butterflies. A rainbow of rose bushes intermingled with overgrown hedges. Hummingbirds and bumblebees drifted along the flowers like partners who had danced together for lifetimes. Fat orb weavers performed the haunting solo of spinning their silk traps among the leaves. Palm fronds swayed drunkenly, watching from afar. A curly mass of vines stretched to cover all the rocks and bushes that lined the walkway, guiding me toward the the heart of the oasis. Then, I saw her.

Dark, tawny eyes bore into my soul, though her smile enticed me to come nearer. White curls cascaded down her back contrasting with the dark red silk robes that adorned her. She reminded me of a beautiful black widow.

“Hello, I’m Verda. Thank you for coming all this way.” She extended her long, spindly fingers to take my hand. Although COVID was rampant, I couldn’t refuse her gesture, and as she led me along the winding path, she told me a story.

She’d been brought to this property as a young woman, many years ago, to marry the owner of the colonial estate. He was a strict and unforgiving man in most ways, but allowed her creative freedom outside of the home. The first thing she planted was the rose bush. She watched it grow from a tiny bunch of twigs. She tended to it lovingly, clipping, watering, and fertilizing for years. It grew into the guardian of the pathways.

“Roses are much like women;” she said, taking out a pair of pruning shears, “they lure you in with their beauty.” She bent, slightly at the waist, to inhale the fragrance of an orange rose blossom. “But only those who know how to care for the plant, will leave unscathed.” She cut the stem swiftly and held it out for me to take.

As we sauntered alongside a lovely koi pond, she casually tossed in some feed from the pocket of her robes. She went on to describe how the laborious days of her youth inspired her to reach for new things, unimaginable things.

We sat down together on a stone bench overlooking the masterpiece Verda had spent her life creating. She turned to me and whispered.

“I see the love of nature in your heart, too.”

I stared into the old woman’s dark eyes, confused and a bit frightened by the proximity of her face to mine. She placed a small, black notebook in my lap, and, breaking eye contact, I suddenly remembered why I was here.

I turned to retrieve the brown bag on the bench, just behind me, when I noticed something I hadn’t before. A few paces away, under a giant Japanese maple, a headstone read, “A lover of nature: Verda” with today’s date, but ten years previous, scrawled at the bottom.

Tears flooded my vision in confusion and terror as I turned back toward Verda, but the only thing left of her was the clipped rose and the notebook on my lap.

“Excuse me?” A woman’s voice called out from the cottage across the pond. I tucked the book away and wiped my eyes on the back of my hand. “I think I wrote to come to the cottage and knock.” She stated with a slightly accusatory tone. She looked like a much younger Verda, with the only difference being her light green eyes.

“Are you... Verda, too?”

Confused, I brought her the brown bag. I told her that I met an old woman named Verda in the garden, and she sighed. Her green eyes glistened in the dying afternoon glow.

“You met my mother, and yes, I’m named after her. I miss her so much, but it’s comforting to know she’s still here. Thank you.” She said gesturing toward the bag of food sadly, and closing the door.

I offered my condolences and turned to leave back down the path of ivy vines. Part of me wanted to stay. I had so many questions! My heart had been inspired and morbidly intrigued by this land and its ghosts. Instead, I carefully moved the thorny stems of the original rose bush out of my way and left the garden behind, feeling eyes on me the entire time.

I saw my beautiful family in the van waiting for me, and the fog infecting my mind lifted slightly. I couldn’t resist one last look, as a chilly gust of air urged me toward the car.

I retold my story to my family, while the sun dipped low in the sky; it’s final rays kissed Verda’s masterpiece goodnight before settling down itself.

On the road, I opened the mysterious notebook. Scrawled on the yellow-stained pages were Verda’s secrets to a successful garden. The book outlined everything from planting, propagating, and harvesting in tune with the moon cycle to rituals for prosperity and growth. The most interesting, and terrifying, page was the last: a spell for the eternal life of your oasis, which included a blood sacrifice.

Attached to the inside of the back cover was a small leather pouch, which contained a single coin and a note.

“To beginnings. -V”

We had the shiny, gold piece appraised by a professional who told us it was worth nothing less than $20,000! We’ve decided to sell it to create our own oasis. No need to wish us luck; we have a witch’s notebook.