The Witches Of Denmark (9 page)

“Are you serious?” asked Dad in disbelief.

“As a friggin’ heart attack.”

“It’s a miracle it didn’t burn the grass all to hell.”

“Actually it did, but not before sending swarms of flies everywhere in the neighborhood,” said Julien, pausing to sip his cocktail. “Ever since, we have referred to our four Harry’s as ‘Music Harry’ next door to us here, ‘First Harry’ for Harold near the school, ‘Black Harry’ for the nice kid at the corner of Forrest Street at Chaffin’s Bend, and… ‘Horseshit’ Harry for the asshole rulin’ the roost across the road from y’all.”

We laughed for a good five minutes, and another hour’s worth of periodic chuckles followed. It was exactly what my father needed. He seemed at peace by the time we headed back to our side of Old Dominion.

Peace. If only it were enough to protect us from the return of a deadly feud drawing closer; a conflict that could potentially consume Denmark and everything I was beginning to dig about the place.

Chapter Eight

A few days spent in worry, denial, and battle plans finally resolved itself in the reality that the Mateis bought the old Bresden place on DeWitt Street.

Exactly one month to the date of our move to Denmark, the enemy threw down a gauntlet. And, from what my parents gathered from Julie Paris, the Matei family added twenty grand to help move Mrs. Leslie Porter out of her ancestral home by the closing date. The Code had meant very little to our adversaries since the unfortunate event of 1877.

As for the Bresden mansion? It once belonged to the wealthiest family in all of Herschel County. Located about a mile from downtown, the brick antebellum was the most notable showplace in western Tennessee—including Memphis—from what I gathered from the courthouse archives.

Seven thousand square feet, with a ballroom on the third floor and eight bedrooms, five bathrooms, and a theater room. It wouldn’t be a paranoid statement to suggest the Mateis were trying to show us up. Not that I’m jealous… okay, maybe a tad envious about the theater room, and the Olympic-sized swimming pool in the back yard. But, like I alluded to earlier, we have the money to buy a dozen places like that and be ‘no worse for wear’, as folks also like to say down here. Really, money is no object for either clan, with millions stashed away in American currency and portfolios with investments spread throughout the world. Still, the lavish habits of the Matei family speaks to the compulsive one-upmanship that has hallmarked their behavior in the feud.

The patriarch of this proud Romanian clan is Valerian Matei, born in 1494. Roughly the same age as my grandfather, the two were childhood pals. Both were born into two of five families that had been admitted into the Dark Realm by the
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ceremony, more than a thousand years before. By then, the lifespan expectancy of 640 years had been verified, and in strict accordance with the original traditions marriages were prearranged. Of course, since most witches and warlocks back in those days also had sentient gifts that told them who amongst the kids would be compatible, most of these marriages were successful unions.

That’s how my grandparents became an item, as people like to say in modern times. It’s also how Irina Matei was betrothed to Valerian from the most wealthy of the clans—a family that disappeared from the face of the earth because they tried to cheat the devil of his dominion over the witch clans spread throughout the Romanian kingdoms at the time. Yes, I admit that this last part is likely nothing more than an old wives’ tale. But the family and its name did die out, and it is considered extremely bad luck to say this name, much less write it down. So, I won’t.

Three families exist today, one preferring the old ways in rural central Russia, far away from modern society and convenience. To protect their continued privacy and lack of interference from outsiders, their name will also remain a secret. In addition to Irina’s family, my Grandma Florin’s clan became extinct by the time our families traveled to the newly formed United States of America in 1801. We didn’t fly by broomsticks through wormholes across the Atlantic, as some might suppose. The intent has always been to blend in so we don’t stand out. Though it is difficult to kill us, it’s not impossible—especially if a mob of angry, superstitious people is involved.

Thank God that Alisia and I were spared the brutal hardships of traveling by ship across the cold Atlantic. I can only imagine how much fun that was…. But I doubt it was ever as horrible as the conditions normal humans dealt with on a ship back then. Grandpa refers to that trip fondly. Grandma says his memory is tainted… although Dad says it had much to do with Grandpa’s turning the sea’s bitter water into the finest Chardonnay they had ever enjoyed. Unlike Grandma—and apparently the Mateis—Georghe Radu enjoyed the challenge of masking his hubris from the captain and crew.

So, the two clans that arrived in America at the turn of the nineteenth century are the only ones to my knowledge with the sanctified distinction of being semi-immortals gifted in the dark arts, and able to enjoy all the earthly excesses that physical youth and vigor, and virtually unlimited wealth can provide them. Almost nothing is out of reach for us, with the right spells. Contrary to how this sounds, we don’t serve the devil. Belief in God and a final reckoning for all mankind still pervades everything we do, and always has. This is where The Code originated, and to my knowledge it’s strictly adhered to by most of our brethren throughout the world.

But, back to the Mateis….

Irina was born in 1502. I’ve often thought she and Valerian look like brother and sister—more so than any other Romanian couple I’ve ever encountered. None of their children gravitated to such ‘alikeness’ in their marriages, as such a word defines the Matei American patriarch and matriarch physically. They seem only distinct in personality. Blonde with green eyes, Valerian’s hair is as long as Grandpa’s. It has something to do with the Samson tradition in the Old Testament, although Grandpa lets his wavy graying hair rest upon his shoulders like the Quaker Oats’ guy. Valerian wears his in a ponytail, which makes his chiseled features less Fabio-like than they’d be if he let it hang. Irina is more matronly, and frankly is sort of what Denmark is missing. There are very few high-class bitches as compared to the Chicago suburbs. Gotta keep things in balance, ya know.

I won’t bore everyone with full genealogies, other than offering names and corresponding birth dates to make it easier to picture the alliances once shared between the Mateis and my parents and grandparents.

Simion was my father’s buddy, born in 1715. He’s a dead ringer for his father, at least physically. Dad sometimes talks about missing him. After all, for roughly sixty percent of their three hundred year lifetimes they were as close as brothers. Their personalities were quite similar, too, from what I understand. But after the death of his youngest brother, Toma, something changed in Simion. He developed a mean streak that later endeared him to gangsters like Al Capone. Even so, according to Grandpa, Simion was part of the movement to make sure Capone never regained his Chicago crown when released from prison in 1939. Simion loved being the hidden backbone behind the deadliest Chicago crime syndicates, and became increasingly selfish in that role as his influence increased.

Magdalena, Simion’s wife, was another outsider brought into the fold—just like my mom. Drawn to the dark arts despite her strict Catholic upbringing, Simion found her during his travels in 1795 and wanted her to be his bride—to match the good fortune of my father and mother. Like my folks, they were teenagers in love—despite Simion’s seventy-eight years on planet Earth. However, unlike my parents, Simion has never been able to stay faithful. He loves the ladies, and his dalliances number in the thousands, from what I’ve been told. Apparently it has worsened since our families parted as enemies. He and Magdalena have appeared cold to each other the few times I’ve seen them together, like the forced marriages of old that didn’t work out so well. Only, in this case, Simion can’t replace Magdalena with someone else—his mother would never have it, since Irina has revered Magdalena as her own daughter. It’s eerily similar to Grandma’s view of Mom.

I think this is enough background to finally discuss what happened in 1877….

What no one believed would ever befall any of us hit the Mateis that year. For reasons unknown to this day, Toma Matei, Simion’s kid brother, began to age and he did so rapidly. Not sure if the rumor of a counter spell to
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by a powerful Croatian wizard who hated Valerian has any merit, but in the end, the blame fell instead upon my grandmother’s head. When Toma’s condition had worsened to where the physically sixteen-year-old had seemingly overnight become his natural age of ninety-three, Irina sent for Grandma, who was just as frantic to find a way to reverse what was happening to the former youngster. By then, Irina and Valerian had tried every spell available, and the European Elders were also at a loss on how to fix this disaster. In fact, the Mateis thought there was nothing that could be done, and planned to travel to Europe in hopes of tracking down the wizard to make whatever amends were necessary to get him to recant the spell.

But Grandma knew of a possible way to “bind the Devil’s hand’, as she put it. But it came with a cost. A human life—and not just any life—was required. It had to be a witch, or warlock. Not necessarily the semi-immortal kind, but one that practiced the same canon of dark spells. When a fellow countryman who had moved to America just before the Civil War, and who also had a softer version of life longevity became the candidate, Irina and Valerian canceled their plans to sail for Europe. The victim’s name was Sorin Gabon, and my parents have described him as a true pig of a man. He had previously blown both families’ cover, causing both clans to be chased out of Scranton, Pennsylvania by a superstitious crowd bearing torches and pitchforks—even in 1860. It’s how the two families ended up in Rochester, NY.

Despite my grandmother’s suggestion, once it became time to apprehend this warlock for sacrifice she began to have misgivings. According to Grandpa, she anguished over the taking of another human being’s life. True, Gabon was a complete scuz-bucket (I really like that modern term, by the way). Endangering witches or warlocks from both families by exposing their true natures was a very real and serious thing… and an offense worthy of death, according to The Code. But the sanctity of all life wore heavy on her heart… just not heavier than her allegiance to her dearest friend, Irina Matei and her youngest child.

The scheduled midnight ceremony to kill Sorin Gabon arrived on a clear, moonlit night in September. The warlock was tricked into thinking he would be made an equal of the Radus and Mateis. When the terrified man realized instead that his blood would be shed to save Toma’s life, he fought with all of his might to escape. Sorin called upon the demons and spirits he claimed to serve when his pleas for mercy from my grandparents and Irina and Valerian went ignored. Grandma has repeatedly stated it was almost impossible to ignore his cries, and she forced herself to focus only on her devotion to Irina and the base nature of this unscrupulous sorcerer.

Soon after Sorin’s throat was slashed and his blood mingled with sacred dust from the most ancient Romanian hills, and before my grandmother finished applying the muddy paste as a cross to Toma’s face and chest, my Uncle Manuel became afflicted with the same mysterious disease. Toma grew younger and Manuel took his place as an aged man.

I can scarcely imagine the spot my grandparents were in—Grandma was left with the horrible choice of either carrying out the final incantation and saving Toma, or watching Manuel suffer the same aging fate with no way to heal them both. She was torn and Grandpa has talked about how she turned away from them both, crying in agony, and praying out loud to the gods and goddesses of her forefathers to spare Manuel and Toma. Suddenly, Toma began to weaken again, and in turn, Manuel—his best friend in this life—quit aging. It was then obvious to all present that one would die and one would live—regardless of Grandma’s efforts to intercede. The death of Sorin Gabon proved needless, and in fact, was an ill-fated decision.

Realizing she had made a horrible misjudgment, Grandma fell to her knees, refusing to choose, while Valerian, Irina, Magdalena, Simion, and all the Matei siblings and wives begged the same deities for Toma to be saved over Manuel. On our side, everyone else said nothing—stung by the Mateis’ overtly selfish response and badly frightened by what was happening.

I’m told that Grandpa sought to comfort Grandma, ignoring everyone else, as she was beside herself with grief. Immediately, following his act of compassion, the ancient forces that preside over our unique race of mankind made their decision known. Manuel was spared. In a matter of minutes he fully recovered, while Toma not only reverted to the ripe old age of ninety-three years, but kept going until his bones and flesh wilted to dust. The last of his horrifying screams were nothing more than dry, empty rasps.

My mother has spoken of a series of powerful wind gusts that swept through the clearing where this ceremony took place, gathering the lifeless body of Sorin Gabon and the dust of Toma and carrying them away. Once the wind and its contents had disappeared, so had the dear friendship between the Radus and the Mateis. Forever.

Within two years, my family had moved under the threat of death at the hands of their former friends. My grandparents and Gabriel’s siblings fled to the Chicago area, and my parents crossed the Atlantic to Romania. At least that was the intent. As I stated near the outset of my story, my arrival while Mom and Dad rested in Paris was what brought them back to the United States and to Chicago. By then, the war between the Mateis and us had claimed mortal allies—dear family friends of ours. And although every attempt to kill a Radu in return for Toma’s death was rebuffed, to this day the Mateis and Radus are sworn enemies of each other.