The crescent moon-shaped scars on my knuckles itch as they hover above Rhiannon; the plant repulses my hands because her appetite is the source of their suffering. Scythe sharp thorns along Rhiannon’s stem curl inward like fingers beckoning me closer. Her ink-black leaves shiver in anticipation of lunch. The violet veins wrinkling their faces pulse, ley lines in dire need of a sacrifice. No matter how much Rhiannon feasts, she’s always hungry.
The plant is an heirloom and family tree. All the Chastain women sprout from its soil in death, reincarnation for the purpose of divination. Rhiannon Chastain, the original matriarch, was buried alive on the family farm by her husband. She dragged a dagger across her neck before the last specks of soil fell to spite him. As Rhiannon drowned in the dirt, blood wept from her throat and planted seeds of rage into the ground. Mama said Rhiannon’s mouth was the plant’s original home. When her daughter, Jessamine, exhumed Rhiannon’s corpse, she excavated the plant’s violet roots from her mother’s teeth; she rehomed the single black leaf into a terracotta pot that she hid beneath her bed. Jessamine became her father’s punching bag once Rhiannon died. After a particularly brutal beating, she sought comfort from the plant. Blood spilled from her split lip and the pitch black soil devoured it. Dirt wormed its way beneath her fingernails, and Jessamine accidentally swallowed it. She saw red froth foaming on her Papa’s lips, silver lightning striking his body again and again, his coal black eyes staring blindly at a star drunk sky. A week later, he was stabbed to death in an alley, and Jessamine recognized the plant’s power. While Rhiannon’s rage gifted the Chastain women with magic, Jessamine pioneered the path for our fortune-telling empire.
Rhiannon’s soil remains as black as her leaves, loose and lush despite its centuries of service. She only requests one source of sustenance for survival: blood. Generations of Chastian women bore scars on their fingers, palms, and knuckles to wield the family fortune telling gift. As Mama said, “Our blood is the key to the future, Lily. It’s a small price to pay for a peek at what’s to come.”
I primp Rhiannon before each reading because she’s vain. Or, rather, Granny Thistle was. She never left the house without three coats of poinsettia red lipstick, even when Parkinson’s rattled her hands so badly that she smeared wax on her canines. I asked the undertaker to paint Granny’s teeth red for the funeral, but he refused. Granny’s lamina bosom pushes Auntie Willow’s shriveled leaf aside, forever a drama queen. When I remember Auntie, I think of the shape of her shadow. It resembled a Cook pine tree with its hunched posture and corded arms always reaching for something that wasn’t there. Auntie’s shadow captured the gloom growing inside her, but we ignored its warning. After the funeral, Mama confessed that Auntie Willow hung herself because she couldn’t bear to be separated from her stillborn daughter any longer. I shake my head. Each leaf tells a story, but I don’t have time to listen. The fertility of my customers’ fortunes and futures will be compromised if I steal a crumb of soil without tidying Rhiannon’s appearance.
Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours plays on the shop’s speakers as I untwine the vines and stroke the satin soft faces of my dead relatives. Customers appreciate Wyrd of Mouth’s witchy aesthetic, but I can’t offend my oldest customers’ Christian sensibilities by playing anything edgier than Stevie Nicks. Coven is satanic; Iron Maiden reminds them too much of the husbands they prefer to forget inside the shop. I smile as Stevie sings about seeing crystal visions and selling dreams. The Chastain matriarchy doesn’t peddle anything as fickle as dreams or depend on crude instruments like crystals to forecast the future. Rhiannon’s suicide ensured our visions were precise.
Once the leaves settle, I rake my hand against Rhiannon’s thorns. Blood drizzles from the pale cloud of my palm. I flip on the tea kettle while Rhiannon bathes in the salty sacrifice. Lemon ginger tea disguises her taste best. The lemon tames the aftertaste of bitterness, disappointment, and regret my relatives flavor the soil with; ginger settles the nausea I feel after forecasting the future. It’s disorienting for my body to remain in the present while my mind torpedoes through the future. While the tea bag brews, I pinch soil from Rhiannon’s pot. As I stir the mixture, inky ribbons swirl around the spoon, and the dirt dissolves. I wrap my bloody hand around the mug and brace myself. The sour taste no longer puckers my cheeks or brings tears to my eyes. The melancholy hangs on long after my appointments end, though. I shoot it back like a shot, thankful the scalding liquid camouflages the worst of my coven’s acidity. Carefully, I rinse the mug and ensure all the soil is swept down the garbage disposal’s whirlpool. Leftover kernels could be ingested by curious pets, nosy customers, or clingy husbands. I’ve buried enough bodies to know Rhiannon is poisonous to anyone outside the family. Customers believe the cemetery garden behind the shop is ornamental, another decoration adding to the witchy ruse. I don’t correct them because those that died from tasting Rhiannon flavor the jalapenos with extra spice, the tomatoes with extra juice, the onions with extra tears.
The bell rings above the shop door as the last traces of Rhiannon swirl down the drain. Time to divine the future.
—About the Author—
Adrianna Gordey (she/her) is a writer based in Kansas. When she isn’t writing, Adrianna can be found daydreaming about the Atlantic ocean and assembling overly ambitious Halloween costumes. Her work has appeared in the Hunger Mountain Review, One Art, Neologism Poetry Journal, and elsewhere. Follow her on Instagram @by_adrianna_gordey!
*For more poisonous plants go HERE!