Ancestors by Rae Iolene

Ancestors 

Rose reached for the rowan branch,

pulling thread from the wicker basket 

she affixed it to the top of the front door. 

Yesterday she painted the door anew—  

a deep shade of amethyst. The glass panes

shined and glittered in the morning sun. 

The sunlight warmed her back, but the 

spring day was frosty and cool. Rose pulled

her shawl tighter around her shoulders, 

feeling the hair on the back of her neck rise.

She scanned the sky, blue with streaks of white,

Nothing. No sign of them. 

She sighed. Sticking her hand into the little bag

at her waist. At first touch, fire sparked up and 

down her arm. The salt activating her connection 

to the Other. She was not a Witch. She was not 

a Healer. She was something else—a Weapon.

She slowly scattered the salt across her threshold. 

Rose bent down, admiring the foliage on her 

lavender and rosemary plants. Earlier she had 

crushed up egg shells in the soil and placed a 

hag stone in the bottom of the lavender pot. 

An anchor for the spell. An Anchor for her. 

She set the plants on either side of the door.

As she stood, that’s when Rose felt it again.

The metal bit against the back of her neck.

Don’t move, a male voice hissed. And that’s 

when she felt the weight of it. Divination was 

never her strong suit. But her Death, it was here.

And yet all she could think of was Opal, her sister.

Rose stared at her protection spell. 

One step and she would be over. 

One step and she’d be free.

But Opal was in the woods. 

Opal was in the woods. 

She needed to be warned.

Rose screamed. 

And the metal cut down. The metal cut down. 

The metal cut down.

And it was like being eaten alive by her own power. 

The fire licked her arms. 

devoured her and the enemy whole.

Decades later, Rae stands on her front porch,

admiring her front door. She thinks about 

painting it blue, or maybe purple. 

Like a geode, she thought. Magical. Ethereal. 

The breeze ruffles her hair and she looks up,

noting the sky and wisps of white. 

She rubs the back of her neck, picturing the large

red birthmark there—just at the base of the hairline—  

passed down from mother to daughter to granddaughter. 

Again, she wonders if she’s being watched. 

She wonders if Amethyst is a brilliant color. 

She decides, Yes. Yes it is. 

xx. Rae Iolene 

18 April 2026