"Do you think we'll like it there?"
"Of course we will," said David, his eyes half closed against the white-yellow sunlight that flickered through the cabin. "It's the city, Nancy. They've got sweet shoppes and big libraries and real, chalked-up ball fields. They've got everything. We'll like it, for sure. What's not to like?"
Nancy's hand danced across the warm, bristly scruff of Ranger's neck. The white dog shuddered slightly as it slept, caught in a passing dream of conflict and triumph.
"It'll be so different though," said Nancy. "We'll hardly know anyone."
"We'll know Aunt Ruth," said David. "And we'll know each other. That's enough for a start, isn't it?"
"What about Henry?" she said, motioning towards her younger brother, asleep at David's side. "He's shy, you know. Don't you worry..."
"Who's shy?" said Henry, cocking one open eye towards his sister. "I'm not shy."
"You're reserved," said Nancy.
"I was reserved in Baybrook," said Henry, closing his eyes and resettling himself. "I won't be reserved in the city."
"Can't afford to be," said David. "You get swallowed up in the city if you can't stand up for yourself."
Nancy wiped a bit of dog hair from her gloves. "You talk like you know."
"Remember?" said David, tapping lazily on the glass of the window. "I've been out to the city. Dad took me out to see the matches at the Colosseum for my birthday three years ago. Afterwards I saw two men fighting in the street. Two men, just throwing punches. It wasn't anything like the matches. It was...wild. And sort of ugly. I remember thinking someone was going to run out there and stop them. Actually, to be truthful, I thought Dad would. But he didn't. No one did. And one of the men got beaten so bad I don't know if he even lived.
"Afterwards, I asked Dad why he hadn't done anything and he said it wasn't our business. He said there's too many people doing too many things in the city for you to go around helping anyone. That's why you can't be shy in the city."
"I'm not shy!" said Henry, eyes still closed.
"People get into fights in the streets?" said Nancy. "Just...they go around hurting each other?"
David shrugged. "I'm sure they had their reasons. Probably betting on the matches. Money makes people sour in the city. Just don't give anyone a reason to be cross with you and you'll be fine."
The cabin became silent then. David closed his eyes and feigned sleep, while Nancy watched the wheat dance madly as the train rattled and lurched through the farmland. The tan waves had an almost hypnotic effect. Nancy's mind reeled backwards to Founder's Day. She saw her mother in the center of a rainbow pinwheel made of cloth banners and spinning men. The air seemed to vibrate with chants. She remembered reaching for her father's hand and the way he pulled his hand away.
"David," she whispered, trying not to wake Henry.
Her older brother's eyes opened slightly.
"Do you..." She considered her question carefully. "Do you think about Mom? Ever?"
His eyes closed. "No."
Nancy felt her face get warm. Her fingers dug hard into Ranger's neck, waking the dog. "Because she was..."
"She wasn't our mother," said David. "You can't be that and be a mother. Not really. Everyone knows that."
"She was our mother," said Nancy softly. "She took good care of us. Why doesn't that matter? She loved us. Did she ever forget a birthday or fail to make you feel better when you were hurt? Did she ever..."
"She's gone," said David. "I don't want to talk about her."
Nancy left her brother alone. She tried to sleep, but when she closed her eyes she saw the white tree and nearly screamed.
"I don't think she was bad." Nancy looked up and realized that Henry was awake and talking to her. "I know what they say about her kind, but you're right. She loved us. Remember when I broke my arm and when I woke up it was fine again? Why would she do that if she didn't love us? Why would she do something so dangerous?"
Nancy nodded. Henry hadn't been there on Founder's Day. Her father had given the boy a mug of sweetmilk spiked with brandy and left him sleeping at home. As far as Nancy knew, Henry hadn't even understood the significance of the white tree that had sprouted up overnight in their backyard.
David had known, however. And when the men came to collect their mother, he had simply sat on the front steps and watched.
Nancy had assumed that Henry's broken arm had been the key, but it wasn't. No one else had ever known about the arm. The suspicion had begun during the harvest the previous year. Nancy's father grew cabbage and carrots and potatoes. Nancy hadn't known this, but apparently the winter freeze had come too late or too early. In any regard, their crop was plentiful in a way that made their neighbors jealous - and at least one suspicious.
Heyman Goold suspected that something unnatural was afoot. In an effort to prove his theory, he shot Ranger. The dog should have died, but it did not.
So Goold planted the seed of a wild ash tree in their front lawn. The wild ash is known for being receptive to magic. Under normal circumstances there is nothing out of the ordinary in the way they grow. But in the presence of magic they grow suddenly - and turn white as dust.
On the train, Nancy nearly laughed to think of herself that morning. She awoke so alive and full of cheer. Founders Day! There would be singing and dancing and maybe, just maybe Rory Cashin would ask her for one of those dances.
But when she stepped out of their house that morning the first thing she saw was her father, standing very still just beyond the doorway. She stepped around him and saw the white tree and fell to her knees. She felt all the good and the joy and the promise of her life drain away from her. She felt so fearful that vomited there, in the grass.
Heyman Goold came with men. And they took Nancy's mother away.
There had not been a witch in Baybrook for some 50 years. They had to consult a torn, old book to remember what to do.
They chanted and spun as the fire built and built. All the while Nancy's mother stood, serene and patient.
When it was over, those gathered simply wandered away, tired and unsatisfied.
Ten days later, the children were placed on a train for the city.
"I'll follow, eventually," their father had said. "Be good to Ruth. Be good to each other."
Nancy could not help but notice the way her father would not look her in the eyes.
"She wasn't a bad witch," said Henry. Nancy could see the tears slipping down his ruddy cheeks. "And she was still our mother."
"She wasn't a witch at all," whispered Nancy to no one but herself. As Henry settled back into sleep, she pulled the glove off her right hand and admired the faint glow of white light that pulsed from her fingertips. "I'm sorry, Mom," she said, clenching her fist tight. Diffused by the flesh of her closed hand, the light glowed blood red. "I'll look after them. I'll never let anyone hurt us again."
----*----
I wrote this story two or three years ago as a prompt response (inspired by the artwork created by Kevin Hong up at the top of the post). It didn't get much traction at the time and I completely forgot about it, but I saw it while scrolling through my subreddit today and, to be perfectly honest, I kinda love this story. It's another in a big, tumbling pile of short pieces that feel like they could someday be expanded, but who knows? For today, it's just a scene in a train and that's plenty good enough.