“You must be like the berries in the winter,” her mentor said as she gestured toward the wall they were walking past. The berries stood out with their red stems against the worn wall. The leaves had fallen a month ago.

“Poisonous?” That didn’t seem like a very good thing to be nor a lesson that she should be learning. She must have misread her assigned text again last night. In fairness, she had been very tired from her chores.

“No.” The exasperation was clear in her mentor’s voice and in the rubbing of her temples with the pads of her fingers. “Not poisonous. Hardy. You must be able to thrive even when it seems like there is no hope. You must push yourself and never give up. Like these berries. You must be the hope of life when there only seems to be death.”

“Oh.” Jasmin looked at the berries again. This time they seemed brighter than they had before. “I’m not sure I can do all of that. It sounds…”

“Yes?” Her mentor’s voice was soft, but it demanded an answer.

“It sounds like more than I can do.” She looked up at her mentor quickly, before looking back down at her feet as they continued to walk, their boots crunching on the last leaves of autumn. “But I’ll try not to let you down.”

“I know. And you can do it, or I would not have chosen you.”

At this Jasmin smiled and though she could not see it because she was still looking at her feet, her mentor did, too, before she looked back up towards the sun struggling to break through the clouds.

“Leaves fall every year. It’s what they do. It’s why it’s called fall,” her sister said with an exasperated tone, the one she saved for Heather when their mother was out of earshot.

Heather shrugged. It was the safest reply. She wasn’t stupid. She knew why it was called fall. Though, is she were asked, Heather would have told her sister that she preferred to call the season autumn. It sounded prettier.

Luckily though her sister became distracted by a group of kids on the other side of the street from her school and forgot what she was about to say as she walked away. Heather was an afterthought, which was fine by her. That’s how she felt in her family most of the time anyway. She turned her attention back to the fallen leaves on the sidewalk, slicked down by the night’s rain.

She couldn’t read what they were saying, yet, but she would. Heather knew it in her heart. The leaves almost seemed to form letters that swirled in front of her eyes, but then she blinked and they were gone. It was frustrating and Ms. Willow was gone this weekend, stocking up in the mountains was how she put it when Heather asked. The other kids called her Old Witch Willow, but Heather thought that was mean because people made fun of witches, which they shouldn’t do.

“Come on, Heather, we’re going to be late!” Her sister was doing that annoyingly dramatic tapping of her wrist to make her point as the other kids laughed and waved goodbye. Her sister didn’t even wear a watch.

“Coming!” Heather glanced at the leaves one last time before standing up and running to catch up with her sister who had already turned her back to walk home.

She didn’t see the leaves swirl behind her and rearrange themselves on the ground. But they could wait. She would be back.

There was an old box of photographs for sale, shoved between a rusting lamp (it was not worth the $10 price tag tied around its base) and a pale violet vase (which was worth much more than its $5 price scrawled on a bright orange sticker), on the table of a vendor at the weekly, Saturday jumble sale that Suzanna had not seen before. The photographs caught her eye. Or, perhaps more precisely, the lurid green box they were stuffed in caught her eye. It was the kind of green she hadn’t seen since she bought that cheap, neon green chair for a few bucks to furnish her overpriced, but cheapest she could find, apartment in grad school. A fleeting smile played across her face. By the time she was done with her degree, the chair was held together with packing tape and prayers. It had been surprisingly comfortable though, or perhaps she had simply been younger. Probably a bit of both.

She knew she had been standing too long looking at the box, lost in her memories, when the vendor’s voice caused her to jump.

“A buck a piece or 6 for 5,” he said. His voice sounded as old as the photos looked. Scratchy like a misused record.

“A bit steep,” Suzanna replied as she touched the edge of the first photograph in the box. The corner was broken off and the boy in the photo looked like he was leering at the photographer. It sent a shiver down her neck.

The vendor did not argue with her assessment and did not try to hurry her along. There was no one else trying to look through his wares.

Suzanna continued to flip through the photographs, as if it were a compulsion. None of them were particularly well-composed. Some were blurred to the point she wasn’t sure what or who the subject was. And yet, she felt as if she had to look at each one, as if there was a secret for her, hidden in one of them. She just had to figure out which.

“I haven’t seen you here before.”

“No, I suppose you haven’t,” he said, but did not comment further. It was odd, usually the vendors talked so fast and so long that she could barely get in a counter-offer for bargaining.

When her index finger touched the third to the last photo in the box, it felt like a shock of static electricity bolted into her hand. She pulled the photo out of the box and handed the man a dollar without a word. He didn’t say thank you or goodbye as she walked away in a haze, people having to sidestep her as Suzanna seemed unaware of anything but the photo she held.

“You’ve got to get rid of that box,” said a voice behind the vendor.

He did not turn around. “Why?”

“It’s not right to make them see their futures. It’s not our job.”

The man chuckled. “I don’t give them their future. I only show them their past.”

“That’s not how she’ll see it. You know that.”

“That is not my problem.” He held up the dollar before disappearing it into a fold in his sleeve. “I believe I am now winning our bet.”

There was a snort in reply. “Not for long. Tomorrow it’s my turn.”

When the moon is full and reflects the last of the sun’s light,
And the cattle lay down to sleep in fields,
Both dry and green,
Then close your eyes and cover your ears
Little one
Don’t listen to the whispers in the night.

When the moon shines down and the stars are too bright,
And you can feel the earth hum,
Beneath your feet,
Then lock your door and hide the key
Little one
Don’t listen to the whispers in the night.

For they whisper soft and they whisper sweet,
But that’s the last you’ll know
If you don’t keep your feet.

Don’t listen to the whispers in the night…

“The bird in the tree does not mock you,” she says with the quiet assurance that came with age and study. Her smile creases the corner of her eyes into crow’s feet. You have never understood why wrinkles were called that. They looked no more like crow’s feet than the lines on the palms of your hands.

“You move too slowly for them to notice you.”

You bristle at that. You have always been the fastest in class. You’ve won ribbons out of the hands of competitors who underestimated you. If anyone is too slow, it is this old woman. “I’ve been coming to your lessons for four months now and still you haven’t taught me a thing that’s useful.”

She leans her head to the side. It reminds you of the crow in the tree that flew off a moment ago, after laughing its harsh call. You’re not amused, though she seems to be. “Perhaps you simply have not been learning.”

You cross your arms and have the urge to stick out your tongue at her, even though you are far too old for such childish things. “I came to learn earth magic and all you’ve talked about for months is the weather and the birds that have come to your garden and made me read books about identifying shorebirds that all look the same. They’re just little brown birds, who can tell the difference? Who cares? And now you think that standing here looking like scarecrows is somehow teaching? It’s ridiculous.”

She takes your rant that has been building in your chest like a festering boil for the last month and spilled out of you as if you were not in charge of your tongue without interrupting. She doesn’t cross her arms or look away. It is unnerving to be watched with some emotion you can’t put your finger on. It makes you angry though you couldn’t say why if asked. She doesn’t ask you.

“Everyone learns at their own pace. I had one student who took a year to be able to name the sparrows in the field and another who took two to identify all the trees on the farm.”

“That doesn’t matter!”

“Perhaps not to you, not yet. But it will.” She stretches her arms above her head, carefully so as to not hit you with her cane. “I think it is time for a nap. I will see you back at the house when you are finished.”

“How will I know when I’m done?” You want to scream, but don’t. You will keep some dignity even though there is no one around but you, your teacher, and the crow that is still sitting on a branch over your head.

“When you can recall what a flock of crows calls itself.” And she turns and begins walking back to the house without waiting for your reply.

You want to stamp your feet and yell, but she would hear and you won’t give her the satisfaction. Though you’re not sure if she would feel anything one way or the other. You look up at the crow and scowl. “I don’t suppose you know what she’s on about?”

The crow cocks its head to the side, in mimicry of your teacher. “Of course,” the crow says as you fall back, almost hitting your head on the side of the stone fence. “But you wouldn’t understand, not yet. I’m still not sure why she wastes her time on you. ”

Your voice is still not working as you watch the crow take to the air and join a flock, winging its way toward the farmhouse. But the word comes to your mind and you are relieved the crows did not want to act it out.

A flock of crows is a murder.

You reflect on that as you slowly rise and walk back to the farmhouse, not sure now at all where the world ends and the magic begins.